Blood on the Pavement
by French Tugboat
Summary: HeartKink Fic. After being victims to their own curiosity in a shooting, John and Sherlock are stalked, leaving all unsettled. As things come closer to a standoff, Irene makes an appearance with severe repercussions. Sherlock and John are tested and tried, wearying them; whether their love can prevail is unknown. John is ill; Sherlock documents John. Post-Reichenbach.
1. Chapter 1: First Sign of Suffering

**Sherlock carelessly flung himself onto the familiar couch. "_Bored!_" He'd shout at no one in particular in exasperation.**

**This was an occurrence he'd truly miss, John realised too late.**

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were so attuned to each other, that when the perpetrator took an unexpected turn down an alleyway neither knew existed, they didn't speak, didn't even glance toward each other before taking alternate routes, like a choreographed dance, knowing every move and its outcome before it even happened.

The two men had lived together for quite some time, and in that time, what was to John extraordinary, had simply become ordinary, in the most pleasing of ways. John was to bear witness to one of humankind's most amazing minds, and became quite an integral part of the roundabout processes through which this mind followed.

After notifying Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of their whereabouts and their need for assistance, Sherlock ran into an opening at the end of the alley in which he'd been running into what resembled a small parking lot. The night time heightened Sherlock's senses; a sharp, cold wind, like a slap across his equally sharp face awakened Sherlock to the reality which faced him. The air was suddenly still; the perpetrator's back was no longer to the two men. He was facing John, and both men seemed to be frozen. John stood unarmed, receptive to the man, whose gun was shaking so violently that an accidental firing would surprise no one. Despite this, John stood unafraid, with his military experiences accountable for his nerves of steel. Sherlock's sudden appearance seemed to go unnoticed, which was unnerving, as Sherlock, like an actor, or perhaps a concert musician, held himself in a way that commanded attention; his presence was all consuming, and to have a person other than John impervious to such a suffocating incidence was certainly a first. Then again, with John, Sherlock had come to explore a lot of firsts.

Once again being dumped back into reality, Sherlock became frozen. A gunshot rang through the air, a sound to which Sherlock had grown accustomed, yet this night, this shot, it all felt different. A second gunshot pierced the silence.

Sherlock's instinct was to see if John, the love of his life, was alright. John was lying on the ground, his arms by his side, like the way he slept when Sherlock wasn't there to soften the blow of falling asleep. John's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder had previously rendered him incapable of, well, anything, at times, such as once in the supermarket when a young mother, struggling with her kin, managed to knock down a very large soup can display – the noise had triggered John, and he had lay on the floor of the supermarket in a similar fashion. This caused Sherlock to first assume that john was simply being triggered again and was in the midst of a panic response, as the last few months had not been kind to John, and so he turned to face he perpetrator. The perpetrator had already gone.

Sherlock ambled toward John, who remained still.

Sherlock's heart started to pound uncomfortably inside his chest, which suddenly seemed too small to hold everything inside him. He kneeled down beside John, whose breath came in quick, shallow gasps. Upon gently placing his hands on John in an attempt to calm him, Sherlock realised that John was wet. A street light too far away offered just enough light for Sherlock to see the red mess that had become his hands and John's body. John tried to speak, but only animalistic whimpers managed to escape his mouth. In response, Sherlock squeezed John's hand briefly before returning to duty – he had to find the source of the bleeding and stop it, and hope that Lestrade would soon grace the men with his now unusually sought presence.

Sherlock identified one of John's wounds as a shot to his left shoulder, a place into which Sherlock spent much time nuzzling.

"I need to see if the bullet is still inside your shoulder, John," Sherlock said, surprised by the pleading tone in his voice as he looked straight into John's frantic eyes. "I'm going to need to lift you, John; I'm sorry,"

Sherlock thanked the gods with whom he never concerned himself that John was not wearing his usual layers upon layers of clothing, as assessing John's wounds would be less difficult that way.

Sherlock gingerly lifted John up, and John closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain, which was proving difficult. He coughed violently enough that Sherlock dropped him. Both men gasped, aware of the further pain to ensue. John's face warped with pain like Sherlock had never seen before, and Sherlock's chest felt like lead, seeing his blogger like that. John nodded stiffly, to encourage Sherlock to continue. This second attempt was successful – Sherlock was able to deduce that the bullet thankfully went straight through and had missed arteries, but stopping the bleeding was still crucial, but due to the placement, Sherlock could not forge a tourniquet, so he took off his scarf, and packed the wound as lightly as he could, and removed his coat for a makeshift pillow for John.

Sherlock tentatively kissed John's forehead, which was worryingly cold, and clammy.

John was still hyperventilating. Sherlock grasped John's hand with both of his, and said as calmly as he could, "John, I need you to breathe, shh," he soothed.

John tried to speak again, but was more successful, "I can't," he gasped, "pressure, chest" he managed to splurt out before another coughing fit ensued.

_Oh, where the bloody hell was Lestrade?_

Sherlock sought John's pulse; his radial artery would suffice. John's heart, beating an unreliable Presto, combined with his clamminess, and his tachypnoea, was indicative of a massive haemothorax, meaning John's pleural cavity was very quickly filling with blood ('_as much as 40 percent of a person's entire blood volume could accumulate'_, Sherlock mentally noted), and restricting the ability of John's heart to beat.

Sherlock clutched John's hand, maintaining at least one finger on his faint pulse at all times, and called for an ambulance.

"John, help is on the way. You need to stay conscious John, for me, you _must stay conscious_. Please." Sherlock instructed.

Just as he was told to not do, John lost consciousness. His pulse faded into oblivion. As if to compensate, Sherlock's pulse accelerated to a prestissimo, his heart stumbling over itself in an attempt to continue its life giving purpose.

"Shit! No, no, no, no!" Sherlock cried as he flailed around at nothing. Sherlock had no choice but to start compressions.

He had _no idea_ if that was a good idea when someone was suffering a haemothorax, he'd ask his handy doctor boyfriend, but circumstantially, this was impossible.

Sherlock couldn't do _nothing_; he couldn't watch John die.

Giving one beat for every three of his own, Sherlock placed his hands on his boyfriend's familiar chest and he pushed. Sherlock lost his grasp of time, too caught up in John. _'Remember to bloody well breathe, Sherlock, and for John, too.'_ he told himself, and he followed his own instructions. His arms soon began to ache, but this innate strength he found pushed him forward. He threw up when he heard the first rib break under the pressure. '_It's common in these circumstances'_ the distraught detective told himself. He began to feel numb, listless, over his unconscious, possibly dead boyfriend's body. He paused for a second to try to find a pulse again, sure he would have felt John's struggling heart burst into life beneath his hands had it done so, but feeling so unsure of himself, he simply had to.

Nothing.

_'Back to compressions.' _He told himself. He steadily launched himself back on John, aware of the aching in his knees against the hard ground, his elbows beginning to buckle, yet he pushed on, with the far away street light making John look as well off as he was – not at all – and with that merely centimetres from Sherlock's face, how could he possibly stop? Another rib went, another wave of nausea came. No matter, Sherlock kept his steady beat.

Sherlock became aware of a strange pressure dragging him backwards, away from John. His limbs were no longer his own, he was no longer touching John. A strange shriek pierced the silence Sherlock had drowned in when trying to help John, but he realised the noise was coming from deep within his own throat, his chest, his whole being ached with that cry.

"Sherlock!" An insistent voice called. The hands twisting all over him calmed, and Sherlock felt like he was coming up for breath from underwater when they ceased to occupy all the air surrounding him. Sherlock was no longer outside. He was in what seemed to be a moving metal box, with equipment in it – ah, an ambulance. Why was he lying on his back? He tried to sit up, but two sets of hands gently, but strongly held him down. For the first time in what seemed like days, his eyes and ears came into focus. One set of hands belonged to a moderately aesthetically pleasing man dressed in a paramedic uniform, and the other set of hands belonged to Lestrade.

"_Lestrade! Where's John? John, Lestrade; I have little time for your incompetencies today, if you don't mind! Where's John?"_ Sherlock shouted at the poor man.

Reaching now for Sherlock's forearm, Lestrade calmly said "Sherlock, I need you to calm down. John's being taken care of; there's nothing you can do now except try to help up take care of you." Hoping Sherlock would respond to logic, Lestrade tried to reason with the distraught man. Sherlock considered Lestrade's statement, which he knew was truthful, but this time, the truth was not calming. In the midst of his panic, Lestrade reached down and held his hand. It didn't quite fit right, like John's did. Sherlock couldn't quite figure why, but it just wasn't quite the right shape or size. Despite this, it still helped Sherlock calm down. Sherlock tried to breathe deeply, but his lungs couldn't handle much more than shallow gasps. He meant to notify his unexpected company of the pain in his chest, his inability to breathe, but before he was able to do so, he slipped out of consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2: Heartbeat

John.

Where was John?

Sherlock flung his eyes open, almost violently, in anticipation of what he was to see.  
He was in a hospital room, in the bed, as he deduced. There was a curtain separating him from the other part of the room. Sherlock hoped that he wouldn't have to share a room with anyone, but then again, Sherlock wouldn't be spending much more time in the bed if he had his way… which he would, of course. On his right index finger was a pulse oximeter clipped to his finger. He hated those bloody things; any moisture in the receptacle, and the pressure on your fingernail felt like it was being ripped off. Oh, how some small things annoyed Sherlock. Somebody had changed him out of his clothing and into one of those awful hospital 'johnnies' as they called them.

John.

Back to him. John, that is. At the thought of John, Sherlock's heart began to thump clumsily in his chest. '_Oh joy, more arrhythmias."_ Sherlock thought to himself as he felt the all too familiar disjunct pounding inside his chest swell as the monitor beside his bed turned from quietly exposing every contraction of his heart to the world, to crassly honking, notifying anyone in earshot of Sherlock's racing, and arrhythmic heart.

"Sherlock," a familiar voice rasped.

In response, Sherlock's heart beat even faster.

It was John.

Surely Sherlock was mistaken; John had died.

John's heart had stopped beating - Sherlock had felt its cessation, had felt John's body lose the warmth in which Sherlock often sought to bury himself.

Then again, John's voice, more aggravated this time – "Sherlock! Are you all right?"

Sherlock thought he was going mad.

"_Bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes; answer me!_" Despite the frailty of his voice, John was using his Military/No-time-or-patience-for-your-rubbish-Sher lock voice, and it shocked Sherlock into reality.

"John, you're, well,' Sherlock breathed. "I'm fine, I think. Are you all right?" Sherlock responded, still not convinced that he wasn't talking to himself.

Sherlock's various telemetry devices had not ceased wailing, so thankfully a nurse rushed in to attend to the matter of obvious urgency. She ripped open the curtain disguising the unknown other half of the room.

John was there, in bed.

Pale as the sheets in which he was encompassed, leaned over the rails on the bed, wide eyes. John had obviously figured how to silence the machines monitoring him, as the screen flashed in alarm just as Sherlock's was still doing.

Must they do _everything_ together?

The nurse saw both men's apparent need for urgent medical care and so she called for another nurse.

"John, are you all right?" the petite woman asked.

"Yes, I'm fine; attend to Sherlock." John replied as he slumped back into bed.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he was witnessing between these two, but the nurse and John were obviously familiar.

The nurse gently reached over and felt his pulse, thrumming away at his wrist.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" She asked.  
"You tell me, uh…?" Sherlock waited for a name.

"Watson."

"Pardon me?" a startled Sherlock, who was out of breath, inquired.  
"I'm John's sister, Harry, Mr. Holmes. Your blood pressure is startlingly low, but due to your condition, we shan't do anything about it just yet." Harry indulged.

An official looking man walked in to see to John, and he drew the curtain shut.

"By what do you mean 'my condition', Watson?" Sherlock noticed the IV in the crook of his elbow. Peculiar; most people would immediately notice a needle in their arm upon waking, but Sherlock was not one of these.

"Upon producing results from tests obtained during your unconsciousness, we have come to conclude, not unanimously, that-" Watson was cut off by John.

"Not _now_, Harry. I have a few things to discuss with the other physicians here, as well as Sherlock."

"If this is because I'm a _lowly_ nurse and you're a _doctor_," She spat, "I will _not_ hesitate to kick your arse at Scrabble."

Watson returned to Sherlock's out-of-sorts body. She opened a drawer and after a short altercation with its contents, she handed Sherlock two small, alarmingly red pills. His face contorted in both questioning and disgust prompted Watson to explain.

"Beta blockers. I'm giving you 80 milligrams of Propanolol Hydrochloride." She poured Sherlock a short glass of water.  
"I can't take these." Sherlock stated.

"Please don't be difficult, Sherlock." John called from the other side of the curtain.

"No, I _cannot_ take these." Sherlock insisted through gritted teeth.

"Unless you want to risk permanently damaging your heart, amongst other things, I suggest you take them, Mr. Holmes." Watson implored.

"Unless you wish to risk a decrease in coronary blood flow, left ventricular function, cardiac output, and tissue perfusion, I strongly suggest that I do _not_ take them." Sherlock responded, getting more agitated. Thankfully, John clicked on to what Sherlock was getting at.

"No, Harry, he can't take them. Read his chart." John instructed from the other side of the curtain.

"You don't _look_ like a cocaine addict." Harry said.

"I looked the same then as I do now, except for a few track marks." Sherlock said defensively. The decrease in left ventricular function alone would kill me, by the sound of it. If you only told me what you all hypothesised, I could help you diagnose me." Sherlock put forth in his usual quick flow of speech, wasting no time.

The doctor that was attending to John burst through the curtain, opening it as he came.

"Sherlock Holmes, your condition is quite a mystery to us, currently. Before we talk further, I'm going to need to prevent you from going asystole again." He said, getting straight to the point. Sherlock liked this doctor. The doctor rummaged around the same drawer as Watson had, and handed him different pills. "Calcium channel blockers. Your heart can't handle much more of this-" he said gesticulating towards the monitors, still noisy, and he reached over Sherlock and muted them "-and hopefully should return to functioning relatively normally in a few minutes. I'm Doctor Wittner, by the way."

Sherlock dry swallowed the pills. Sherlock's heart began to slow down gradually, and after the prescribed few minutes, now silent monitors stopped flashing, and the display returned to normal, and the doctor switched the sound back on. A quick bleep filled the silence.

"Wait… Why is my condition a mystery? Asystole _again_? What tests did you run? The results? Where's my chart?" Sherlock demanded. This new doctor obliged and relinquished Sherlock's file. Sherlock skipped over the first page, which contained his personal details and any previously known conditions, and went straight to reading the details of his admission and stay thus far. Skimming over a great deal of information he considered unimportant, a few details caught Sherlock's eye.

He and John had been admitted together, at 20:57, and had come by ambulance. Sherlock had presented with syncope; ECG reading displays distinct significations in the ST segment, T wave inversion, with sinus tach; what appeared to be basal hyperkinesis; stills from an echocardiograph showed the strangest looking heart he'd seen. He was wrong – he actually had a heart but it _was_ as ruined as he expected anything inside his chest to be. Of course nothing denoting how John was holding up was contained in Sherlock's file. A phone number had been scrawled in the margins of the chart with '_ICE - DI Lestrade'_ next to it.

_Lestrade._

He could get more information from the least irritating member of the police force he knew.

"So, why on _earth_ would my heart look like this?" Sherlock asked, afraid of the possible answers.

"_I_ think you are a textbook example of Stress Cardiomyopathy. John agrees. Some of the other staff disagrees, because, well, technically speaking, there aren't really any textbooks with the condition listed, and if it is, it's a hypothetical with few or no known cases. Well, there's a few in Japanese, but we tend not to read those." Wittner explained.

"Okay, treat me like I have Stress Cardiomyopathy. Case _solved_. What's John's condition?" Sherlock asked impatiently. Wittner moved aside to allow John to answer the question himself. Watson's pager beeped and she waved absentmindedly as she rushed out of the room.

"I was shot. Twice. You were there. You saved me, Sherlock. One shot went through my left shoulder. You stopped the bleeding with your scarf. One shot went through my pleural cavity, and caused a Haemothorax. When my heart could no longer pump, you started CPR, which is the best thing you could have done, considering that a chest tube was not a possibility in the field. You called for help, and so Lestrade and ambulances came, and we ended up here. I have two fractured ribs, and I had emergency surgery to stop the bleeding, and to try to repair the damage caused by the haemothorax and my shoulder." John began forlornly. Wittner had obviously turned the volume on John's telemetry devices up, because Sherlock could hear the reassuring beep from them punctuating John's speech. It was an enormous comfort to Sherlock. "You were drifting in and out of consciousness, and you wouldn't calm down, so we decided that it was best to knock you out for a while, gave you a low dose of antipsychotics to allow your body and mind to relax in order to cope with trauma you experienced. During this time, an angiogram and an echocardiogram were performed. This led some of us to deduce you were suffering from Stress Cardiomyopathy. If your condition doesn't improve tonight, we're putting in an intra‐aortic balloon pump, but I don't think you'll need it; or I really hope you don't. It has been 36 hours since this all happened, Sherlock, my love, and everything is surprisingly okay. I'm right here, and we can go home soon." John explained.

Wittner nodded in agreement, his arms crossed casually on his chest. Sherlock remained silent. He began to close in on himself. He crossed his arms, which turned into desperately clinging onto himself. His eyes watered, and he felt a surge of adrenaline within him, but he tried to calm himself, to stop it from triggering another episode of arrhythmia, which would trigger the machines and alert John to his immense distress. He breathed as deeply as he could, in an attempt to prevent his heart from getting out of sorts. He closed his eyes, and scrunched his whole face up in focus. The beeping coming from his side of the room started to accelerate despite his efforts. Wittner knowing Sherlock was a bit eccentric waited until then to intervene.

"Sherlock, what exactly is going on?" Wittner asked from across the room.

"He's having a panic attack. I need to get over to him." John said as he tried to manoeuvre his way out of bed.

"_John Hamish Watson, you stay in bed or so help me_," Wittner began tersely as he walked toward Sherlock. He put his hand on Sherlock's forearm and pulled him out of his own vice grip, hoping to try relaxing him.

"I'm _fine!_" Sherlock bellowed.

"Sherlock, calm down, please." Wittner instructed.

"Wittner, can you just help me get over there?" John asked impatiently.  
"John, you've recently come out of surgery; _Jesus, John, you were dead!_" Wittner replied.

"I was dead for, what, maybe _four_ minutes?" John retorted angrily. "Now _help me up_!"

"_Stop!_" Sherlock roared. He had brought his knees up to his chin and was shaking.  
"_Just give me time to breathe_." He cried. "I need a minute to calm myself." He snapped.

The men let the silence fall between them, stiff in the air like humid suffocation, with the unceasing beeping disrupting it.

Thankfully, after a short recess of silence, Sherlock let the adrenaline surges come, and he had no choice but to ride them out. Thanks to the calcium channel blockers, they weren't half as bad as they usually were. After letting the panic attack pass, Sherlock managed to collapse into his normal self again. Despite it being close to midday, Sherlock managed to fall asleep. John lay motionless, listening to the sounds of the never silent hospital.

Over the few days the men stayed at the hospital, Sherlock and John learned more about each other's pasts, and family. Both men being introverts, the conversations were much like a butterfly coming to rest upon one's shoulder; the smallest thing could cause it to fly away. They discussed favourite Christmases, childhood pets, high school, and silly anecdotes about their mutual friends. As the time went on, the conversations turned more serious. John opened up about Afghanistan, and Sherlock tried, and was surprisingly successful in avoiding callousness when talking about some of the things John had seen. Sometimes, when John was asleep, he'd whimper, sometimes yell, which went unnoticed to all but Sherlock who stayed up, trying to talk his slumbering companion out of nightmare. It didn't work as often as he liked, but it was the best he could do.

The two men were ready to go home. John, the more seriously injured of the two was ordered to submit to bed rest for the following 48 hours, and Sherlock was to be his assistant for once, Wittner had informed them. The men left with a few scripts, and via Lestrade, they made their way home, to 221B Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had, of course visited the men in hospital, but seeing her back in her usual environment bought joy to both John and Sherlock. She ushered Sherlock, John and Lestrade inside, and John put the kettle on.

"Now, John, you heard what Wittner said. I expect you won't go to bed, but the couch will do. Off you go." Sherlock instructed. John without protest cautiously lowered himself to the couch and watched as Sherlock made cups of tea.

"Lestrade. I haven't yet properly thanked you for your assistance throughout this whole ordeal. I can't thank you enough for saving the both of us." John began. As if on cue, Mer. Hudson presented a rather delectable bottle of finely aged scotch whiskey to the detective.

"Oh, wow, that's unnecessary, but I will most definitely enjoy this. Shall we make a toast?" Lestrade offered, taken aback by the kindness of the bunch.

"I'll go fetch some short glasses." Mrs. Hudson began as she scurried away.

"None for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, please." John instructed kindly.

Mrs. Hudson returned with the glasses and Sherlock in tow, balancing four cups of tea on a platter with a rather drab looking doily on it. Sherlock bequeathed the tea unto each person, in their favourite mugs, of course – even Lestrade had a usual cup from which he drank at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson poured three generous glasses of the whiskey, and handed one each to John and Lestrade. Sherlock's lack of liquor rendered him confused, and his face showed it, to which John replied "Sherlock, as a consulting physician on your case, I deem it unacceptable for you to drink."  
Despite the mix of emotions Sherlock was feeling, he just nodded, and began a toast.

"To DI Greg Lestrade, without whom we would not be standing."

The cohort raised their glasses and drank deeply.

The festivities soon ended, leaving John and Sherlock to their devices.

"Come on, you're exhausted. Come to bed." Sherlock insisted, offering a hand to John who was still on the couch. John accepted and the two men went into bed together.

"I'm glad to be back here. I missed bed." John said, as he breathed in the familiar scent of his own home.

"Come here, John." Sherlock was lying on his back, and gestured towards himself. John shuffled up the bed and into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock's warmth always surprised John. The gentle thumping of Sherlock's heart beneath his head calmed John exponentially.

"How are you holding up, John?" Sherlock asked tenderly. The sound of his name reverberating inside his companion's chest was so pleasing.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, really." John said. For a moment, he almost believed it.

"I know you've been having nightmares again." Sherlock mused, trying to sound casual, as he played with John's hair. John said nothing but nestled further into Sherlock.

"I won't just let you bury yourself in me, John, not without help." Sherlock kept his voice calm.

"Help? I've _got_ a therapist, Sherlock, in case you hadn't noticed." John snapped.

"Yes, but you sit there and argue semantics and don't _get _anywhere. You need to start moving forward, John. We can move on from this and other things together." Sherlock pleaded. He reached down to John's hand, and held him by the wrist, feeling his pulse, which was starting to accelerate.

"How can I move on from _killing_ people, Sherlock?" John began. He propped himself up, glaring at Sherlock. "I was sent over there as a doctor. I _fix_ people, Sherlock. How am I supposed to move past the fact that I violated the oath I took? _First do no harm_. How can I live with that?" John exploded. Sherlock stared him straight in the eye.

"You just _do_. You can't change the past, you've learned from it, so _let it go_." His heart in his throat, hoping he hadn't said the wrong thing, Sherlock waited for a reply.

John smiled wistfully.

"For once, Sherlock, it is my mind raging like a mad bull, and yours finds the most linear way from point A to point B. I wish I could just get on with it, but it's unrelenting; I can't escape, and I don't know how to get past it." John confessed.

"Funnily enough, psychiatrists specialize in just that. We'll get you the best we can. I'll consult Mycroft and see to whom they send all their scarred employees. Excellent." Sherlock pulled John closer as he felt a surge of joy blooming within him. John returned to his original spot with his head buried in the taller man's chest.


	3. Chapter 3: RelapseThe Letter

The men awoke at seven the next morning. John, who was a morning person, cautiously rolled out of bed and put the kettle on, while he let Sherlock have an extra fifteen minutes to prepare himself for the day.  
"John, you're not supposed to be out of bed until tomorrow. Come back," Sherlock, in his half-asleep state, muttered into his pillow.  
"Sherlock, come here," John beckoned.  
"No, you come here." Sherlock insisted.  
"Sherlock, you want to see this." John said sternly.  
Sherlock begrudgingly left bed, and wrapped himself in the bed sheet for warmth. John had been interrupted by whatever this important thing was and had not yet found his dressing gown, and was stark naked, standing as though he were interrogating someone, by one of the surprisingly clean (thanks, Mrs Hudson) coffee tables. Other than being de-cluttered, it appeared perfectly normal. Over on the other side of the room, on Sherlock's favourite chair was his coat, with a note scrawled on top, in messy handwriting – 'Call me when you get this – Lestrade'. 'Excellent.' Sherlock thought to himself.

"Sherlock!" John shouted at the other man's inherent casual inspection of less important things.  
"John, don't shout; you'll hurt your ribs. What is it?" Sherlock inquired tensely.  
"Well come and have a bloody look." John raised his voice.  
Sherlock could see John's bounding pulse at the base of his throat. It was far too fast.  
"John, what is it?" Consulting Detective Sherlock asked.  
"A letter. To you." John anxiously pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows, just as he did when he expected something of Sherlock.  
As Sherlock read down the letter, his face turned from harsh and intellectual, to showing his vulnerability.  
"John, did you read this?" Sherlock almost whispered.  
"Of course I bloody well didn't! It's a federal offence to read another person's mail." John stressed.  
"Technically this isn't mail, and you yourself admitted that this was suspicious." Sherlock mused absent mindedly.  
"I never admitted… What?" John was getting irritated.  
"Surely you can feel your own heart trying to forcibly liberate itself from your chest, John. Now, please get back into bed and calm down." Sherlock stared his shorter counterpart in the eye. John didn't move.  
"You've got the sodding bed sheet, Sherlock." John retorted and self-consciously crossed his arms. Sherlock untangled himself from it and handed it to John.  
"Now you've got the bed sheet, I'm cold, and somehow we're still in this predicament." Sherlock stated.  
John remained unmoving and tried to stare Sherlock down, so a nude Sherlock went behind John and placed one hand on John's shoulder, and one lovingly on his elbow, and steered him back to bed.  
"Come on." Sherlock said as he gently pushed John in bed, and tucked him in. Sherlock placed the letter (where'd he put that? John thought to himself) on the bedside table and he lay with his head on John's chest. Sherlock hadn't realised how anxious he was to hear John's heart until he finally placed his head on John's chest, in which case, Sherlock's body released a great swell of relief and comfort which came as a surge of endorphins , which stared like a firework blooming out from inside his chest and saturating even the furthest parts of his body. This feeling was intoxicating. This was worth living for. This was that which Sherlock would have to chase.

John's heart began to decrease in rate as the men simply lay breathing.  
"Sherlock, I want to see the note." John said softly. Sherlock rolled over and fetched the note from where he left it and handed it to John. John's face fell further the more he read.  
"Sher, we can't, I, what are we going to do?" John muttered softly. "Default font and margin settings for the latest version of, well, the world's most popular word processing program, precise wording, but in little detail, so probably a male… Well of course it's a male; we've met him." John continued abruptly.  
"I've taught you well, it seems." Sherlock's offhand comment caused John to look up at the taller man.  
"When the man I love is threatened, there is no room for error, no time for delay and certainly nothing on this god forsaken planet that can stop me, Sherlock." John said darkly.  
"You needn't stress, John; we'll handle this like we do every other case." Sherlock said.  
"You mean in a way that puts your life in danger? We've done nothing and we're already there! I won't let you be so bloody reckless with your life this time, Sherlock. I can't handle losing you again." John became enraged.  
"John, I literally felt your heart stop bloody well beating. You died in my arms, and it terrifies me that I will lose you again. I could exist without you, but by no means would I want to, nor would it be any semblance of a life." Sherlock revealed, shocked by his own candid confession of vulnerability.  
"Well, let's get this sorted, shall we?" John asked in reference to the letter.  
"Later," Sherlock harrumphed as he curled up, once again with his head on John's chest.

The men spent their time silently exploring the endless possibilities of whom, where, and why behind the occurrences, but one thing was clear – whomever it was, was there that night, when they shot John; they had something to do with this.

John fell asleep. Sherlock's head rose with every breath the stout man took, which rather than calming him as usual, it caused Sherlock to panic, that John would simply stop and that there'd be nothing Sherlock could do, which triggered Sherlock to consider seeking comfort in some of his 'old acquaintances'. Sherlock carefully rolled off the bed, and wrapped the doona a bit tighter around John as to not arouse him. He hoped John would be free of nightmares in his nap. He pulled on a shirt, pants, a scarf, but no coat – he felt naked without it – but of course, Lestrade. He retrieved his coat and drove out to the industrial district. He didn't return to Baker Street for several hours, but when he did, he was several thousand pounds out of pocket, and he didn't mind in the slightest.

"Sherlock, where have you been? John and I have been worried sick!" Mrs Hudson fussed over him. He always adored Mrs Hudson – she put up with him and his antics, and she knew he and John were destined for each other before they did, and she made a cup of tea to rival even John's. She was also sharp, and trustworthy. She had previously assisted in cases, where she had been held hostage in her own home, and she had triumphed against her captors. Mrs Hudson was a brilliant human being, Sherlock decided.  
"I'm fine, Mrs Hudson, I assure you." Sherlock insisted. "I'm great, actually, haven't felt this good in a long while. Anyway, John and I have a case to which we had better attend, and you know John, he probably won't get too far by himself. Bye!" Sherlock ranted as he started to jog upstairs, but he was stopped. Mrs Hudson had gripped his arm firmly.  
"I know, Sherlock. I've known you long enough. Don't let John see you this way; it'll break his heart." She implored.  
"I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock began casually. As he turned to go up the stairs, John stood on the landing, in one of his grandpa jumpers; a most forlorn expression clouded his face. Sherlock jogged up the stairs, past John, who didn't move out of his road, and into their apartment. He opened John's laptop and started to compile data related to the letter, before John burst in.  
"Sherlock, come here." John spat angrily.  
"What? No. I'm busy working on solving the letter. I'll solve it by this afternoon and we can go to the pictures or dinner or something, alright, John? Excellent." Sherlock replied. John had little patience for such nonsense, and so he pulled Sherlock away from the laptop, sat him down on the edge of their bed, and he pulled out his mostly dormant 'doctory things' as Sherlock had called them on occasion.  
"Sherlock, take off your coat, please." John instructed sternly.  
Sherlock's gaze fell various places around the room before settling on John. He didn't remove his coat, and out of irritation and defiance, he started reciting the Periodic Table of Elements, as loud as he could.  
"Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron," Sherlock began. "How thoroughly uninteresting this is. If I take off my coat, can I go back to doing my job?" He bellowed.  
"Perhaps." John bellowed back. It was so unlike John, it caught Sherlock's attention. John pulled Sherlock up to standing, removed the coat himself, placed it out of Sherlock's reach and sat him back down, and John kneeled in front of him.  
"John, I have little time for games at this point, if you don't mind. If I wasn't fine, I'd still be in hospital, you're being ridiculous." Sherlock said in a monotone voice.  
"Sherlock, look at me." John said. Sherlock did not comply. "Look at me." John bellowed. Sherlock did comply the second time around.  
"What?" He spat at John.  
"Your pupils are dilated, you can't hold attention, you're speaking nonsense and you're speaking it very quickly. Have you had any hallucinations? Auditory? Visual?" John reeled off rather quickly. John didn't need to feel Sherlock's pulse, as it was clearly visible at the base of his throat. He pulled out a blood pressure cuff, and dug around in his case for the rest of the sphygmomanometer.  
"What? I'm not high, John, I gave that up long ago! Don't be absurd!" Sherlock said as John wrapped the cuff around his arm. He found his stethoscope – "Of course you measure it manually, John. So predictable." Sherlock interrupted. John inflated the cuff, and placed the stethoscope over Sherlock's brachial artery.  
"Shit. Sherlock, we need to get you to a hospital. Now." John said as he dragged the cocaine addled man out of their apartment, which is when it occurred to John that he couldn't drive.  
"You're a doctor John, one who basically specialised in trauma. Can't you invent something here to fix me?" Sherlock asked.  
"I'm not a bloody chemist, Sherlock. Shit, I'm calling Lestrade." John said as he pulled his phone out.

Lestrade arrived at Baker Street only seconds before the ambulance did. Sherlock was loaded in as John followed and kept shouting numbers and details about Sherlock's health to the ambulance staff. Lestrade jumped in the ambulance alongside John. As an EMT began to protest, he flashed his badge and was permitted to ride along. Upon reaching the hospital, Lestrade and John were left to their own devices while Sherlock was taken to the ICU. John marched into one of the waiting rooms with Greg in tow.  
"Oh, fuck Sherlock, and fuck the last week or so, and fuck his fucking habit, which hasn't actually been a habit in three whole fucking years! He was clean! What the fuck was he thinking? John started to self-destruct rather quickly.  
"John, maybe-" Greg began before John cut him off.  
"Don't tell me to calm down! I'm not unreasonably angry!"  
"I know, but maybe we should take our yelling outside." Greg gestured to a family on the other side of the room that John hadn't noticed, who after the doctor in scrubs stopped talking, started to wail inconsolably.

Greg led John outside, where it had started to rain gently. The afternoon sky was cloudy, and still bright, emitting a gorgeous atmospheric glow across the otherwise plain surroundings. John started pacing and shouting indiscriminately. Greg leaned against a concrete wall, lit a cigarette and watched John decompress. His gait demonstrated his history with military service, and it spontaneously occurred to Greg that he'd never seen John's face relax; John's brow was perpetually furrowed, even in sleep.

"John, do you need anything?" Greg asked as he dropped his cigarette and stood on it to put it out. John stopped pacing suddenly, took a deep breath and marched up to Lestrade. John grasped his face, kissed him on the cheek and he gaze ferociously into Greg's eyes.  
"You've done so much for the both of us, not only throughout this whole ordeal, but throughout everything. You're part of my family, Greg, and I don't know how to thank you." John confessed.  
"Family doesn't keep 'I owe you's on family, John." Greg smiled. "Now let's go see Sherlock."

By the time Greg and John found Sherlock's room, Sherlock was in a hospital gown, surrounded by cooling blankets and he was drenched in sweat.  
"He's fine. He's just on the verge of an overdose – he hasn't done this in a while, right? – and you were right to bring him in." Doctor Wittner said as she shook John's hand.  
"Exactly what drugs did you give him?" John asked as he searched for a chart.  
"First, we sedated him with diazepam, which also helped lower his heart rate and blood pressure; we gave him Labetalol, started as 20 milligrams over two minutes, with additional doses of 40 milligrams, which as you can see, have effectively lowered his blood pressure to a safer level. We need him to cool down, hence the cooling blankets. He's coming down, and all we can do now is monitor him. He'll be fine in a few hours." Wittner finished.  
John pulled up a chair next to Sherlock's bed and grasped his hand with both of his own. Greg thanked Doctor Wittner who left the men to their devices.

"Sherlock Holmes, I need you to live, for starters. I need you to be clean, I need you to be okay in every way possible, I need you to be, well, you." John was whispering with his lips pressed against the back of Sherlock's hand. His eyes were closed, of course his brow creased; it was almost as though he were praying. Greg, feeling as though he was intruding on a very personal exchange, silently left the room. Completely forgetting about the letter, John remained stationed at Sherlock's side, while the cooling blankets were gradually taken away, while his blood pressure normalised, and until he came to.

"John, I-" Sherlock began. He felt so guilty; the look on John's face betrayed the myriad of emotions he was feeling. Sherlock could read John like a book; a warm, fuzzy, loving, kind, perfect, smart, intoxicating, simply glorious book. Of all the things John was feeling, disappointment was one of the more evident ones, colouring his face a shade that didn't sit well, in Sherlock's mind.

"Sherlock, why?" John asked darkly.  
"Everything was; I couldn't, just…" Sherlock began.  
"Okay, we're talking about this later." John inhaled deeply, pursed his lips, as he often did. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes."  
"I love you too, Doctor John Hamish Watson." Sherlock squeezed John's hand. John removed his jacket and one of his shirts, leaving his horizontally striped crew neck visible (one of Sherlock's favourites) and he collapsed the bed rail and climbed onto the bed with Sherlock. He rested his head on the centre of Sherlock's chest for a short while, with Sherlock's now at homeostasis heart a great comfort to John, before snuggling into his usual place on his shoulder and falling asleep.


	4. Chapter 4: Arousal

"John, we need to discuss something," Doctor Wittner said in hushed tones as he gently shook John awake. "Don't wake Sherlock just yet."

"Mm, alright. Is everything okay?" John said sleepily.

"Yes, well, that's what I wanted to discuss with you. Sherlock quite obviously _isn't_ alright. Have you thought about, or discussed putting Sherlock on a short term inpatient program?" Wittner asked.

"He was clean for three years, and this is his first time since; he doesn't need rehab, I just need to watch over him more carefully." John said dutifully.

"No, not rehab, maybe more like a short term psychiatric inpatient program?" Doctor Wittner said delicately.

"You want me to commit Sherlock? Yes, he has been struggling lately, more than usual, and yes, I _am_ worried about him but you think that he'd benefit form that? He'd tear your psychiatrists apart; they'd be the one needing help after trying to deal with the full time occupation of babysitting him – it's not easy, you know, but I love him and that's who he is – but they don't get paid enough for that. The only time that committing him would be beneficial for anyone is if he were to voluntarily go, and if he were to actively seek help, which he won't do because that would force him to deal with the whatever-it-is inside his head when he's _functioning_ rather than just the recent trauma stressing him out. It's not going to work." John deduced.

"It'd give you a break for a while, John. Neither of you are at your best. We could refer you to someone if you'd like, perhaps?" Doctor Wittner asked, ignoring John's rant.

"I'm fine, thank you." John said curtly.

"No, you're not. I mean, neither am I, but that's beside the point." Sherlock said, sounding like his usual self. Upon noticing he held both doctors' attention, he continued. "You're right, John, as usual. If, by some miracle of perseverance, I did get fixed, I would not be me, and I like being me; I'm good at it. We're going back home today, yes?" Sherlock asked.

"If you wish, you can leave tonight. I hope that you choose to stay, for a short time which we can negotiate, in our aforementioned inpatient psychiatric program." Doctor Wittner said cautiously.

"No. We have a case to which we must attend. How soon can I leave?" said Sherlock. John had forgotten all about the letter.

"With your recent and previous health issues it's amazing that you're in as fine shape as you are. There are a few tests I'd like to run. I'll have them taken care of soon." Wittner said solemnly. He clapped John on the back as he left the room.

"Thanks, Doctor Wittner." John said sincerely.

The men trudged up the stairs of Baker Street. Sherlock had worn his own clothes for a total of approximately 3 hours in the week preceding; it was getting ridiculous. John sunk into his favourite chair while Sherlock headed for what they all still referred to as Sherlock's bedroom where he had planned to put on fresh clothes. Upon reaching his bedroom, he sunk his hands into the pockets of the coat he was wearing the day he was admitted to hospital. He searched every pocket, including the small pocket he made with this exact purpose in mind, but to no avail; all were empty. A small groan must have escaped his lips, as John spoke for the first time since Sherlock signed his discharge papers.

"It's not in there, Sherlock. There's nothing here, and you won't be able to find any illicit substances from here to Cardiff – I don't _care_ how resourceful you are."

Sherlock said nothing. He shrugged his jacket off and he hung it on the back of his door, where he was still unsure as to whether or not The Woman actually had placed it that night. He missed her. It had been 9 months since he last saw her, but their frequently exchanged texts and emails were something of which Sherlock was very fond. Sherlock walked out and folded himself into his chair, opposite John. Their mismatching furniture was as unique as the souls which most often occupied it, and each piece of furniture had evolved as they did. The silence between the men was usually comfortable, a sign of trust and love, but it hung in the air, suffocating them both.

"Am I really that much of an imposition to you, John?" Sherlock asked calmly after what seemed to be an eternity.

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" John asked, irritated.

"At the hospital, when Wittner was talking to you when you thought I was still asleep, you said it's a 'full time occupation, babysitting me – it's not easy, you know' to Wittner. I am difficult; you know that. I told you the worst things about myself when I met you." Sherlock put plainly.

"You told me the things you'd tell someone you thought you'd only been living with for what, a few months? The worst things about you, Sherlock, are that I don't know about your awkward teenage years, you're always in 'work' mode except for when you let yourself get lost during climax, and _I know_ there's something else in there, something a _lot_ more vulnerable than you even want to admit to yourself and _I know_ it's painful, and maybe it's somewhat unnecessary for you to dig all that up and accept it, but I _need_ you to. I _need _you to share that with me because I need someone to share my pain with, too. Everyone is broken, Sherlock, and in that way you're just like every other ordinary human being on this planet, and I need you to stop being stuck in whatever it is that's stopping you from moving forward, Sherlock, because _I need you_." John ranted lovingly. Sherlock watched John's ucipital mapilary betray him – his pulse was practically leaping out from the base of his neck, and it was strangely arousing.

"And _I_ need _you_," Sherlock growled in his deep baritone as he climbed over to John, practically unable to control himself in a fit of sexual frustration. He straddled John and buried his face in his neck, gently tracing the curves of which John's body was comprised. John was surprisingly receptive; he slid his hands underneath Sherlock's pants and gripped his firm buttocks, pulling Sherlock's hips deeper into his. Sherlock began to gently trace John's ucipital mapilary with his tongue, feeling John's rapidly accelerated pulse pounding into him, tasting the few places John had been and the things he had done since he last bathed. Sherlock felt blood make his pants grow tighter, and as though John could hear his thoughts, he began to unbutton them. Sherlock let John remove his clothes while he continued to explore John's body. Sherlock pulled John's endearingly hideous sweater off, revealing the same shirt he had been wearing three days prior.  
"Time for a change of clothes, don't you think?" Sherlock half-panted in John's ear.

"How about none at all?" John responded as he leaned in to kiss Sherlock.

The men stood, and Sherlock swiftly removed John's pants, revealing his equally pronounced member. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and pulled him into the bedroom. John pushed Sherlock onto the bed, and leaned over him, only their lips touching - a tease, John was. Sherlock, keeping his hips in position, stretched over to the drawer in which the lube and condoms (amongst other things) were kept. When he wasn't looking, John dropped to his knees and began to tease Sherlock's impressive manhood with his tongue.

"Oh Jesus Christ John," Sherlock panted - he was always so sensitive. Sherlock pulled John on top of him and nibbled his neck before rolling on top of him. Sherlock tore open a condom packet, and with his tongue, he skilfully rolled it down John's engorged cock. John and Sherlock made their way up the bed to take full use of the space they needed. Sherlock lay underneath John, who took full advantage of this – he reached down to Sherlock's crotch and started to gently massage all that his hands fell upon. Sherlock lifted his legs and rested them on John's broad shoulders, exposing Sherlock's pale arse in prime position. Sherlock squeezed a little bit of lube onto John, and onto himself, getting ready for John. John gently slid himself into the taller man, who met him with a small purr. John let the great sensations take his body over; his whole body seemed to resonate with what he recognised as dopamine flooding him. Sherlock was stroking the end of his own shaft, and John decided to take his and his partner's pleasure into his own hands. He was rough with Sherlock's cock, just the way Sherlock liked it. "Oh John," Sherlock moaned. Sherlock opened his legs, making them fall to John's sides. John leaned in and kissed him, with Sherlock's flexibility allowing John to twist the alabaster man in any way he pleased. Sherlock became wet with precum, his senses overloaded from inside out. John's fluid thrusting reaching the most pleasurable parts of him made him even more hyperaware of his surroundings. The sweet scent of John becoming more sweaty as their rigorous enjoyment progressed, the scent of his own sweat soaking into the sheets, the accidentally synchronised breathing of both men; it was simply intoxicating; the hammering of his heart beneath his sternum fuelling the excitement, with John's heart visibly thumping in his chest. With his free hand, John traced the mess of veins down the left side of Sherlock's neck, and visible down to his shoulder, which to Sherlock felt like fire. The whole experience heightened Sherlock in a way that drugs ever could – John was doing this to him, and more importantly _with_ him. John's hips dug himself deeper into Sherlock, and with John's now lithe hands holding Sherlock back from ecstasy, Sherlock begged. "John, I'm so close, John, come on, I, _yes,_" With widened eyes, and he was edged closer. John gripped Sherlock's dick with all of his hand, and with a long, deep stroke inside of Sherlock, they both started to come. Sherlock started spilling all over himself; he threw his head back, and arched his spine in immense pleasure. John's toes curled as his whole body was overcome with pleasure. He disengaged himself from Sherlock, and grabbed him by the ankles still near his head and playfully threw him across the bed before he disposed of his condom.

"We need to do this more often." Sherlock exhaled in pleasure as John crawled up the bed to meet him. John lay on his side, propped up on his elbow. "I think we need to shower, Sherlock." John leaned down to kiss Sherlock, who rolled off the bed, somehow avoiding making a complete mess. "Well?" He mocked. John scrambled off the bed and followed Sherlock into the shower.

John turned the fan on, which Sherlock often forgot as he turned the shower on.


	5. Chapter 5: TensionRelease

Sherlock awoke to John's head in the centre of his chest, looking quite vulnerable and small. Sherlock gently ruffled John's hair, unobtrusively waking him. John, as graceful as he is, snorted violently. He turned his head, still on Sherlock's chest and peered up at his man.

"Sherlock," John said as he stifled a yawn and stretched a little. "How are you feeling?"  
"What? I'm _dandy_, John," Sherlock replied sarcastically.  
"Bloody hell, Sherlock, you've just come out of hospital for the second time in a week. Come here."  
John reached for Sherlock's wrist, which he pulled away. John sat up.

"John, I'm fine."  
John reached for Sherlock's carotid artery, and with his free hand, he grabbed his watch. Sherlock's gaze turned cold, and his stare pierced John, whose eyes were fixated on his watch.

"About 90. Faster than I'd like, but not technically tachycardic-"

"John, we have a case, and I'd like to get it sorted as soon as possible, if you don't mind." Sherlock pulled on a pair of pyjamas and his dressing gown.

"Coming?" He asked upon noticing John wasn't following suit.

John begrudgingly found a sweater and some tracksuit pants, and he trudged into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock has spread himself over the couch, and was analysing the letter which they had almost forgotten. The kettle boiled and John delivered Sherlock's tea. John motioned for Sherlock to spread his legs, and with a puzzled look, Sherlock obliged. John climbed onto the couch and shuffled into Sherlock, who ended up spooning John, in a roundabout sort of way.

"Sherlock, what are you thinking?" John asked a he absentmindedly stroked his partner's leg. For the first time in what could have been forever, 221b was in some semblance of peace.

"I'm thinking that no matter what we do, we're going to see them again. It's quite clearly the same people behind you being shot, John. Look at how direct every statement is– this was written by a man. They're unlikely to undertake such a prolific task alone; it is likely we're under surveillance, at the very least. They'll be after us, and they'll only show themselves when ready, John." Sherlock put the letter down and dedicated the use of his hands to fidgeting with John's chest. John awkwardly swivelled his top half around to look Sherlock in the eyes.

"So what are we going to _do_?" He asked, becoming enraged with the prospect of Sherlock's answer being anything other than something.

"We're going to wait. We'll only find exactly what they want us to find, which is no doubt only dead ends and misinformation. Why bother?" Sherlock leaned in and kiss John on the forehead nonchalantly.

"We're going to do _nothing_? _They're coming back_, and we're going to do _nothing_?" John was becoming quite enraged. Sherlock said nothing, he pursed his lips and he grabbed John's right hand. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's wrist and felt his pulse thrumming away at his wrist. John, furious, stay still and tried to stare Sherlock down. Sherlock held his position and stared straight back.  
"A steady 120." Sherlock stated calmly.

"The thought of you in danger, Sherlock, I-"

"Am experiencing a sympathetic nervous system response, causing a release of epinephrine and other catecholamine hormones which is causing your tachycardia, your shaking, dilated pupils, and it's likely to be the reason your cheeks are flushing. Your Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is showing, John." Sherlock finished with his hand still on John's wrist.

"Wait, what? My PTSD is showing? Oh my God, Sherlock." John erupted into fits of laughter. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you." John giggled as Sherlock leaned in for a kiss. "When did life get so wonderful?" John asked.

"What, after you got shot, we both nearly died, plus my brief relapse, and now we're being stalked and they're trying to kill us. You tell me, John." Sherlock said jokingly before he took a sip of his tea. His long fingers almost swallowed the delicate cup whole, with his exceptionally pale skin nearly indiscernible with the porcelain. Sherlock uncurled his fingers from the teacup and placed his hands on John.

"It's going to be alright, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a deep breath as he continued to fidget with John. His fingers came upon two cold pieces of metal resting high upon John's chest – his dog tags. Sherlock enveloped them in his fist, which he rested above John's heart.

"You're wearing them today." Sherlock said softly. John didn't respond immediately; the soft rise and fall of each man's chest and the muffled sounds of Baker Street filled the silence. John breathed in Sherlock's aroma, grounding him.  
"After all that's happened, I just needed to feel closer to them today." John admitted quietly. Sherlock kept the tags in his fist, still placed over John's heart which now beat steadily. He extended his other arm around John's midriff and pulled him a little closer. John placed his head underneath Sherlock's head where he could faintly hear Sherlock's heartbeat, and where his odour was strong. It was tender moments like these that John thought of when Sherlock was being particularly abrasive. The men drank their tea and shared the silence comfortably.

"Cases are your lifeblood, Sherlock; how's this one different?"

"We'd be walking straight into their traps. Leaving it, I conclude, is the best option. They expect me to fully engage in their specially tailored game and I shan't indulge them as such. Don't be foolish, John."

_'Back to his old self, in a matter of speaking'_, John thought to himself. John set his empty teacup aside, and Sherlock reached around and enveloped John's hand, interrupting it on its journey back to the lap to which it belonged. John arched his back a little, and turned his head upward, to see Sherlock's face. Sherlock leaned in to kiss his lover, but was interrupted by John's phone ringing.

"Don't answer it," Sherlock harrumphed.

"I have to." John answered his phone with an apologetic expression which quickly turned to one of shock. "Sherlock, I've got to go. I'll call you later; don't get into _any_ mischief please. I don't know when I'll be back." John shouted as he leaped off the couch and threw some clothes into a backpack. "Love you, talk soon." John briefly pecked Sherlock on the cheek before hurrying out the door and jumping into a cab.

"_Hello?_" Mrs Hudson called from outside the boys' apartment before letting herself in. As much as she insisted that she was only a landlady and most certainly _not_ a housekeeper, Mrs Hudson always cared for Sherlock and John as though she were the boys' mother – before John came along, she was the only person to have ever hugged or kissed Sherlock.

"Where's John going? I finished the sweater I was knitting for him. He was always fond of the more… garish ones." She placed the neatly folded sweater on John's chair and she surveyed the apartment. "How did this get so messy so quickly, Sherlock?" She asked as Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch, drawing his dressing gown shut.

"Oh, right, well, I'm sure John will clean up a bit when he gets back…" Sherlock trailed off.

"Anyway, I've got a batch of biscuits in the oven that are just about ready. Come up and have one later, will you?" Mrs Hudson leaned up to kiss Sherlock on the cheek and returned to her apartment, leaving Sherlock to his lonesome. The loneliness crashed over Sherlock like a wave, and just as quickly as it had come, it left Sherlock feeling free. Sherlock didn't know what to do with himself.

Sherlock sauntered into the bedroom and removed his dressing gown and pyjama bottoms. Pants were not something of which Sherlock was overly fond. He found himself reaching under the bed for John's medical supplies, through which he rummaged. He found his fingers stop on a rubber tube. His interest piqued as he pulled out John's black stethoscope. John used it on Sherlock often, especially in the few days preceding. Sherlock realised he'd never used a stethoscope before. Sure, he'd heard John's heart when they lay together, but never through such a device. Sherlock sat up in bed, patiently unbuttoned his pyjama top, imagining all the things he'd hear – his heart rate steadily climbing in anticipation. He put the earpieces in and tapped what he knew was called the diaphragm of the instrument – bad idea – it was startlingly loud. He slowly brought the head of the instrument to his chest and placed it just to the left of his sternum, where John often put it. His ears filled with the rapid opening and closing of the valves of his heart, which beat frantically beneath his hand. He started to become aroused by the glorious sound, blocking out all else. He felt his groin swell with desire. '_Who am I to deny myself such a simple pleasure?'_ He thought to himself before he stopped thinking at all. His cock was now fully erect, and with each beat of his rapid heart, he felt his need growing. He slid his hand down his stomach, delving into the realm of his body that usually belonged to John. The thought of John, oh how he knew Sherlock's body, almost better than Sherlock knew it himself. Sherlock started at the base of his shaft, gently sliding his fingers up until his fingers encircled the head of his pulsating member. He moved his fingers over the tip, barely touching it, teasing himself, just like John did. As he became wet with precum, he took his shaft in his hand, massaging up and down in time with the beating in his ears. His heart stumbled; a sinking sensation in his chest ensued, further arousing the man, a PVC as he had learned, is what he had had. Sherlock ceased being gentle with himself and began to stroke himself rather vigorously, with one hand on his erect member and one pressing the stethoscope against his chest, which bounced with every heartbeat. His own gasping breath sounded alien from inside himself, a low moan sounded from within, surprising the man, which only brought him closer to orgasm. He reached down and massaged his balls briefly before giving his full attention to his cock. He massaged the head of his sensitive member and with a few more strokes up and down, and with a few suddenly slower thuds of his heart, he came in ecstasy. His heart threw more PVCs as the release of the tension came. His toes curled, his back arched, and he spilled all over himself, and after what was one of the best orgasms he'd ever experienced. He stayed on his bed, with the stethoscope still on his chest. His heart beat faster as he now struggled to catch his breath. He listened to the sounds inside him as he recovered from the glory he'd just experienced. His breath came deeply, and his heart began to slow. After a few minutes, he placed John's belongings where he found them and ventured into the shower.

It struck Sherlock as odd that it was the first time in months that he'd showered alone. Already missing John and his scent, Sherlock lathered his pale body with John's usual body wash and deeply inhaled – not the best idea in the shower. He cleaned himself up, hopped out of the shower and slid on only a pair of silk pyjama bottoms. A new case was always good to distract him, and his thoughts. Sherlock seriously considered seeking drugs; he tried to reason with himself – John would be disappointed and only god knows where he had gone and for how long. Sherlock had to be strong, to consider another's feelings (Christ, they could be confusing) before he acted on his whims. Sherlock sought John's laptop and opened his emails – a few from Lestrade regarding police business and one inquiring about the health of the two men; twelve new case possibilities from the websites (only three of which even worth opening given the subject lines); and one peculiar email which only read '_I sincerely hope you received the letter. I shall be in contact soon.'_. Very business-like, nothing particularly sinister about the message, nor was there anything worth noting about the email address. Sherlock picked one of the less mundane cases to pursue and sent John a text message. Almost immediately, John called.

"John? Get that will you?" Sherlock called out before realising that John would get it – after Sherlock picked up the phone.

"John." Sherlock exhaled.

"Sorry I left so suddenly – I got a call from Clara about Harry and I had to go. It's all sorted and I'll be back in a few hours." John blurted.

"Let's have dinner. I'll meet you at Angelo's at half past five; that should be enough time."

"Oh, okay then. See you later. Love you." John hung up before Sherlock had a chance to answer.

Sherlock went over to his violin which he felt as though he had neglected lately. He tightened the bow, and gently rosined it. After twirling the bow in his fingers, he positioned it comfortably, with the instrument cold against his bare skin. The instrument and the bow felt like extensions to his own flesh as he began to move his body, like liquid, making solemn music until it was time to get dressed for a date with John.


	6. Chapter 6: Proposition

Sherlock curled up in their usual seat at Angelo's and he waited for John. Sherlock was five minutes early, a rare occasion, so much so that Angelo waddled over and started taking his order, as to think that Sherlock would arrive before his date would be ridiculous. As though on cue, John arrived, wearing his black and white horizontally striped top, one of Sherlock's personal favourites.

"How's Harry?" Sherlock asked. John didn't respond. "Not Good…?" Sherlock trailed off in confusion.

"Um, no, Good, but _she's_ not." John responded, fully comprehending the shorthand the two had developed in speech. "She was just making life hard for Clara who thankfully called me. Anyway, dinner." John compartmentalised the day's occurrences and was glad to be with Sherlock. John sighed deeply and smiled at Sherlock. He looked ten years younger when he smiled, like maybe he hadn't gone to war and maybe like his life was a happy one without trauma; his dimples which were only sometimes there shone alongside the stars in his eyes. Sherlock fell for him every time he smiled like that.

"What did you do today, anyway?" a newly calm John asked. Colour rose up Sherlock's neck, blushing rather violently at the thought of his solo escapade.

"I had a long, hot shower, picked a new case, which I really only started to make notes on, and played violin." Sherlock tried to distract John from his painfully obvious blushing, but to no avail.

"Sherlock? Are you alright? Why are you, what?" John fretted.

"I might tell you later if you shut up." Sherlock tried to reassure John.

"Oh, well, alright then. What's this new case?" John reached in to grab Sherlock's hands which were in the middle of the table. John slyly slid his middle and index fingers up Sherlock's sleeve and placed them on his radial artery. Sherlock noticed, of course, and did rather enjoy the little moments like these that he and John shared. The things that went unspoken were said with such little gestures.

"Nothing too interesting, unfortunately. Lestrade just wants some help with a case he and the fools over at Scotland Yard can't crack."

"Has your heart been racing like this all day, Sherlock?" John muttered frantically. Sherlock had a brief and vivid flashback to his free time, which didn't really help.

"John, I'm fine. If I weren't, you'd be the first to know."  
"Except I wouldn't be; you never tell me how you are when it seems you might not be as fine as you say you are. It's annoying."  
"Okay, I'll start telling you if I'm not okay, but really, I am."

"Then why on earth are you tachycardic? A resting heart rate of what, one hundred and ten-ish is _not okay_."

"It's a long story, a tale which I shall regale later. Let's have dinner." Sherlock assured John. John kept his hand around Sherlock's wrist a moment longer before hesitantly withdrawing it.

"I assume the usual, yes?" Angelo asked. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, but he had a knack for appearing just when he was needed.

"Yes, thanks, Angelo, and as well as the usual drinks, three fingers of scotch wouldn't go down too badly for either of us. Your finest, yes?" Sherlock insisted. Angelo nodded and shuffled off to indulge the men.

"What's the occasion?" John asked. Sherlock's heart started to pound nervously in his chest. He had had two identical rings made, in platinum; they were discreet and designed much like plain wedding bands, unlike most rings for men which were vulgar in their attempts to ensure an aura of masculinity with a dull finish and some kind of line through the thing – they were awful. Sherlock had put the rings in a single box, which he had hidden in plain sight amongst his beakers and test tubes and the mess of other miscellaneous lab gear he kept, but now it rest in the left pocket, accessible through only the inside of the jacket. In response to John's question, Sherlock reached in to grab the box, and rather conveniently, just as Angelo placed the scotch in front of the men. John couldn't see what Sherlock had pulled out from his jacket – it was completely enveloped in the taller man's gentle hand which now lay on the table in front of him. With his other hand, Sherlock took a deep mouthful of scotch and he sighed.

"I'm married to my work, John, as I've told you before. You're part of my work." Sherlock said. He presented the ring box and opened it.

"I, um, what?" John stammered.

"Marry me. You know, put on some suits, go to somewhere nice, invite all our friends, make them cry when we declare our love, get them drunk and we'll be legally bound. That's the idea isn't it?"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, of course I'll marry you." John picked the ring with the lesser circumference and slid it over Sherlock's left ring finger, and Sherlock returned the favour.

"Good?" Sherlock asked insecurely.

"Not quite the way people usually do it, but yes, definitely Good." John laughed, releasing the tension from his nervousness. The men held hands over the top of the table until their food came, and Sherlock and ate, mostly to please John, his _fiancé_. John's own strange dietary habits perplexed Sherlock. John didn't eat often, and only ate when Sherlock took him out, or when Mrs Hudson gave him something. Sherlock worried about John.

The men gleefully stumbled in to their apartment on Baker Street, falling up the stairs amidst hands flying every which way, with giggling and smiling and other such things in which Sherlock and John would only rarely engage. Upon hearing the happy nonsense, Mrs Hudson appeared to see what was happening.

"Be my best man at the wedding, will you, Mrs Hudson?" Sherlock asked playfully while dodging John who was making a concerted effort to tickle his fiancé.

"Oh, Sherlock, you finally proposed! I'd be honoured to be in the wedding!" Mrs Hudson almost spilled her tea in delight.

"Excellent! That's me sorted! John?" Sherlock stopped playing around with John and the men panted gleefully. John nuzzled up to Sherlock who pulled the shorter man into a bear hug of sorts.

"Well, I was thinking perhaps Greg," John panted. "I'll have to ask."

"Night Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called as he disentangled John from himself, grabbed his hand and dragged him over to the couch. Mrs Hudson had obviously given the boys a thought, and lit the fire, which cast a beautiful warm light to their apartment. Like two teenaged boys, it was hard to determine where one man started and the other finished when they had their tongues stuck down each other's throats. Sherlock had already thrown his coat elsewhere, and John swiftly flung Sherlock's belt across the room, he untucked Sherlock's shirt and removed it before awkwardly removing Sherlock's pants. John hovered over Sherlock and leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock tore John's jumper off over his head, and pulled him in to eagerly kiss again. John pushed Sherlock over into a position where he lay beneath him, sprawled across the couch. John slid his hand down Sherlock's lean body, and stroked Sherlock's cock, bringing it from half-mast to fully erect. John, keeping his hand down at Sherlock's crotch, kissed him on the lips; he nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, gently biting his neck. He explored Sherlock's body with his tongue, gradually making his way toward his crotch, pausing over his pulse points on the way, sucking them gently. John gripped Sherlock by the thighs and descended between them. John put his tongue to the roof of his mouth, creating a sensation which drove Sherlock to madness it felt that good. John worked until Sherlock's hip rose beneath John's face, Sherlock's back arched and he made those brilliant noises – John loved rendering Sherlock incapable of, well, anything. Sherlock spilled into John's eager mouth.

"We should get engaged more often, my dear Watson," Sherlock panted.

Sherlock shuffled up into a sitting position, and John curled up in Sherlock's arms. As they commonly did on the couch, the men sat in silence together, experiencing their closeness in relative silence. After a short while, there was a knock at the door.

"Don't answer it, John." Sherlock slurred. John relieved himself of Sherlock's warm grip, and put his sweater back on.

"You'd better get dressed because I'm going to." John said as he walked toward the door. Sherlock rolled off the couch, gathered his clothes and headed into the bedroom. John studiously opened the door, not entirely sure of whom he was expecting.

"Oh, hello, Mycroft, come in."

"Thank you, John." Mycroft said as John gestured inside the flat. Mycroft really only came to the apartment when necessary, which was often for business pertaining to cases or whatever 'official' business Sherlock had no business in intruding but was doing so regardless.

"Oh, hello, brother." Sherlock said with less disdain than usual. Thankfully Sherlock was dressed. He strode over to the kitchen and put the kettle on, which was a very rare occurrence. John sat, and gestured for Mycroft to do the same.

"What brings you here this evening, brother?" Sherlock called from the kitchen.

"I have information on the case with which Lestrade has asked for your assistance." Mycroft said solemnly. _'I'd be solemn if I were still wearing a suit at damn near half seven, too.'_ John thought. The light from the fire cast a strange shadow across Mycroft's person. John saw his face well for the first time since his appearance at the flat, and Mycroft looked haggard; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his ears and nose were red, and his skin an unusual and unhealthy pallor.

"Mycroft, you look _terrible_; are you alright?" John asked quietly. He hoped the loud roar of the near boiling kettle would not alert Sherlock, despite Sherlock's somehow unusually refined senses.

"It's been a long week, is all." Mycroft responded.

"It's Tuesday." John retorted. "Is there anything I can do?"

"That's kind of you to offer, John. I'm fine, honestly. I'm just in need of a good night's sleep." Mycroft said before he sneezed rather violently.

"Actually, I think you're in need of chicken soup, Echinacea, Vitamins A and C, and food with good levels of Zinc as well." John leaned back in his chair. Sherlock brought over the tea set on a tray, and prepared tea for everyone. He stood near the fire, his lean body casting a slight shadow over 221B Baker Street.

"Mycroft, we have some news." Sherlock said casually. Mycroft looked up at his brother, with half his face in his teacup. "We're getting married."

Mycroft choked on his tea a little. In recent months, the three men had been getting along better than usual, but Mycroft's reserved nature clashing with Sherlock's intrusive nature while John tried to mediate (although he couldn't help himself and sometimes his sarcastic nature got the better of him) made for some interesting times.

"Oh, well, congratulations are in order." Mycroft sounded sincere. "Will you wear mother's wedding dress? You have similarly tiny waists." He remarked sarcastically. John didn't think Mycroft sounded as spiteful as he usually did when pushing Sherlock's buttons; perhaps Mycroft was trying to be funny. It didn't suit him.

"Pardon me, brother? I think it'd suit me – I have a _great_ arse. Don't I John?" Sherlock retorted almost happily. "The delicate lace cuffs, oh yes. She was relatively short, though, so the dress might just cover my knees."  
"Modern times call for a modern dress, brother."  
The Holmes men erupted with laughter. John hadn't seen them like this, and their sudden intimacy was a warming thought.

"John'll have to wear the high heels, though; he's five and a half inches shorter than me. What do you think, John?"

"Only if you find a pair to match the dress, of course; we have a stereotype to satisfy." John crossed his legs and smiled. The three men flared into laughter again.

"Honestly, what kind of ceremony were you thinking of having?" Mycroft asked, smiling. Mycroft didn't smile, John was reasonably certain Mycroft didn't know how or was born sans ability to do so, except _maybe_ if he was drunk, and he did it accidentally at a particularly brilliant slice of cake.

"Us, you, Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson at some small purpose built structure–"

"You mean a church." John interrupted

"–with some good music, an open bar, and, I don't know, a pool table or something. Oh, and nice food." Sherlock continued.

"What about a celebrant? A priest?" Mycroft asked.

"Lestrade. We should get Lestrade to run the whole affair; he'll have a ball." Sherlock suggested flippantly.

"Now _that_ would be the wedding of the _century_." John said. The men laughed again, and John was waiting for a backlash of hostility – after all, every action had an equal and opposite reaction.

"Now, tonight I came to tell you that my flight for the Maldives leaves tomorrow and I shall not be returning for a month or so. You had better not elope in that time, boys." Mycroft smiled.

"Why are you heading over there?" Sherlock asked, curling himself up.

"While it gained independence in 1965, we still have dealings with them, and I was chosen to be a diplomat of sorts, and a holiday never really did anyone any harm, now, did it?" Mycroft responded.

"Have you been cleared to fly in this state? Do you really want to be doing this when you're trying to recover form a particularly nasty cold?" John asked.

"My first week will be spent holidaying, and some time in the second week is when I'll be dealing with bureaucracy. Hopefully I should be fine by the time I have to deal with the official business."  
"Being the British government must be brilliant." Sherlock said somewhat sarcastically.

"If a little lonely." Mycroft replied. Sherlock and John never thought of Mycroft as anything other than the British government, an older brother, and admittedly, a pain in the arse, but never a lover, a husband and extending that to even perhaps a father someday soon. "Anyway, I had best be o–" Mycroft sneezed rather violently. "Best be _off_." Mycroft finished.

The men stood up and walked to the door of the apartment.

"Sleep well, Mycroft." John said as Mycroft reached to hug him. Mycroft kissed John on either cheek.  
"I will, in law. Congratulations." He said warmly. Mycroft turned to Sherlock and kissed him on either cheek.

"Do take care, younger brother." Mycroft said as he still held his brother.

"I do believe you're more in need of doing so, older brother." Sherlock smiled.

With the warm exchanges finished and Mycroft gone, Sherlock and John went to head to bed. The men walked hand in hand to their room, they defrocked and slid under the sheets.

"Mm, John, come here." Sherlock mumbled. John obliged, sliding closer to his partner who shuffled in closely to rest his head on John's chest. The men soon fell asleep.


	7. Chapter 7: Fiancé

_Achoo!_

"John," moaned as he was startled out of slumber by John sneezing.

"What are you doing down _there_?" Sherlock asked. John was strewn diagonally across the bed, with his feet near his pillow at the top of the bed. Sherlock had somehow not noticed John's restlessness in sleep. He sat up to look at his mate, whose face had paled; his eyes and nose were red and raw from involuntarily leaking various fluids, and in general, he looked rather unwell.

"Sherlock, I think I'm sick." John mumbled as he rolled over defeatedly, remaining skewiff in the bed.

"Well come here, then." Sherlock asked, opening his arms. He didn't really know what to do to help John, who crawled up the bed and collapsed on Sherlock's chest. Just seconds after resting on his partner, John grunted and rolled over.  
"I'm not getting you sick, too." He moaned. Sherlock pulled the strangely compliant man over and back onto his chest. John was a little warmer than usual, but not quite feverish.

"I don't get sick. Don't know why, don't really care, but I won't catch it from you unless I really try to. Even a virus dislikes me." Sherlock mused, rubbing John's back. That was something he'd learned from what John called 'Crap Telly' – gently making circles on someone's back with your hand was something you did to someone you loved, particularly in times of need.

"Want me to go find some cold and flu syrup or pills or something?" Sherlock asked.

"No. You stay here. I'll go fetch something later." John didn't yet trust Sherlock to not find other drugs.

"Just a common cold or are you going to perish with the flu?" Sherlock asked jokingly.

"I don't know; I just woke up." John said. He coughed violently, shaking the bed for the wrong reasons. John felt nauseated.

"John, don't be ridiculous; you won't make it downstairs. Would you feel more comfortable if I called Lestrade to pick some up?"

"Mm; that's a good idea. Thanks, Sherly." John said as she drifted back into sleep. Sherlock picked up his phone from the bedside table and dialled Lestrade's number.

"DI Lestrade speaking," he began

"Greg, John's got a bad cold or the flu, could you grab some things from the chemist for him, please? I know baby sitting's Not Your Division, but he won't let me leave the house and I don't know what to buy. I can't really leave bed, but we're decent enough; the door's open, just come right in."

"Oh, fair enough. I'm taking lunch in 20. I'll see you soon." Greg said then hung up. Sherlock stayed with a slumbering John and simply watched and listened until Greg came.

"Uh, Hello?" Greg called, his footsteps getting closer.

"Still in bed, Greg." Sherlock replied gently. Greg peered into their bedroom – he'd walked in on them in compromising situations a few too many times. He stepped in the room brandishing a large brown paper bag.

"I wasn't sure what to get, but I got the strongest of everything and I had some of my home-made Chicken Soup in the fridge and thought that it'd be a good idea. Blimey, he doesn't look or sound well at all." Greg confessed.

"You're always outdoing yourself, Greg; thank you, that's brilliant." Sherlock said sincerely, reaching for his wallet.

"Don't worry about it, Sherlock." Greg said dismissing the money Sherlock thrust towards him.  
"Greg, you've spent a lot of money, here. Please?" Sherlock said. Greg took the money. Sherlock had learned that etiquette from John, too. Sherlock was becoming more domestic and more 'accessible' as John had said. John would be proud.

"Sit down, Greg, I, well, John has something he needs to ask you, but due to his… state, I might act as a proxy." Sherlock said. Greg assumed his place at the end of the bed where he _knew_ the men fraternised. He tried to not think about it like he did sometimes on his lonelier nights.

"I asked John to marry me and he said _yes_." Sherlock said, almost bursting with pride, disengaging his hand from John's bare back, almost causing him to stir, in order to show Greg the ring.

"Jesus. Congratulations! That's _lovely_." Greg fawned.

"Will you be John's groomsman?" Sherlock said.

"I what?"  
"Making sure John's acceptable and calm and all that at the wedding is officially Your Division, should you choose to accept."

"I'd be honoured. Wow. Thanks." Greg said, getting as emotional as he does in company; he fidgeted a little. Greg's phone went off, signifying a text message. John moaned a little in response, but stayed slumbering.

"Shit. Look, I've got to go. I'll swing by later tonight or tomorrow to see how you're both going? If you need anything, I'm just a phone call away, ok?" Greg said. He stood, and awkwardly kissed Sherlock on the cheek, squeezed John on the arm wrapped around Sherlock's middle and saw himself out. Sherlock opened the bag of things Greg had brought and he took out the cough syrup and a few of the pills. Sherlock gently shook John awake, which due to his flu related fatigue, it was rather difficult.

"John, I need you to take these, which should hopefully help ease your symptoms. We'll get out of bed soon, alright?" Sherlock suggested gently. John took the pills and grabbed the bottle. He elevated his torso a little as to not spill any, and he poured a great deal of the liquid down his throat, careful not to touch his lips around the opening of the bottle. Remarkably, he spilled none. He handed the bottle back to Sherlock who placed the bottle and other medicine on the bedside table. Sherlock continued to rub John's back.

Not wanting to waste the time and opportunity, Sherlock reached for a pile of books he had not yet read and decided to bone up on his knowledge of – ah, a textbook on influenzas and pneumonia. Thanks, John; how startlingly appropriate. John slept uneventfully, with the occasional catch in his throat startling Sherlock. Sherlock got to the end of the book before John rolled over and sat up. Despite nearly 18 hours sleep since the previous night, John looked like he hadn't sleep in days.

"Greg brought us some things, and he agreed to be your groomsman."  
"Hm. Excellent." John said. He was enthused, but showing it was difficult.

"Sit up, John; you'll breathe with less difficulty." Sherlock grabbed the pillows and set them up to take the pressure of John's back and to keep him upright. John stretched and sunk into the pillows.

"How'd I get so sick literally overnight?" John moaned.

"You're the one with the medical degree, John. You're paid to deal with people with such problems."

"You're my genius boyfri– _fiancé _that knows everything; you tell me."

"Well it's obviously a really, _really_ bad cold, or it's the flu. I'm inclined to believe the latter."  
"Tell me why." John asked, like a teacher would his student. Sherlock reached up and kissed John on the forehead, lingering for a bit. Surprisingly not burning up. _Two ideas._ John could practically hear Sherlock thinking.

"Your wrist, please." Sherlock said. John relinquished happily. John's pulse was tachycardic at approximately 120 beats per minute. Still two ideas.

Sherlock reached under the bed and pulled out the sphygmomanometer.

"Help me." Sherlock said, snugly wrapping the cuff around John's upper arm. He looked at the Stethoscope, and feigning ignorance, he examined it to see which way he should put it in his ears.  
"To go along with the ear canals, the things should point forward." Sherlock asked, examining the items he put them in.


	8. Chapter 8: Learn You Inside Out

"Correct. Inflate the cuff until you can't hear any blood flow in the artery." John said.

"What? Can't hear you." Sherlock pulled one of the earpieces out, and John cringed. In response, Sherlock pulled both out.

"Thanks. Doing that can warp the arms. Now, inflate the cuff until you can't hear any blood flow in the artery." John instructed. He continued to walk Sherlock through the process, who successfully measured John's blood pressure. Just to prove how clever he was, Sherlock did it again, but by rote.

"So, what is it?" John asked, not quite sure what he was expecting.

"Concerning." Sherlock remarked, frowning.

"I meant what numbers."  
"I know."  
"So?"  
"Ninety-one over fifty-eight."

"Tell me why it's concerning."  
"Your heart is consistently racing and your blood pressure is in the government prescribed range for hypotension."

"What are your ideas?" John pressed on, trying to teach Sherlock.

"I'm thinking the Flu or Pneumonia. Any chest pain?"  
"Good thinking. Yes, it hurts, especially on deep inspiration."  
"Presence of Crackles would confirm such a diagnosis of Pneumonia, yes?"  
"That would be handy information to have. Do you know what they sound like?"  
"The book I read while you slept described it."  
"Well, go on, listen. Do you know where you should be placing the diaphragm?"

"There were diagrams in the book. Oh. Alright." Sherlock said, stumped. He had imagined the first time auscultating John would be in the throes of passion, not in times of potentially deadly illnesses. Sherlock inserted the stethoscope into his ears and pushed the already topless John to lean forward a little. Starting at the top of John's back, Sherlock touched the bell to John's skin. A great sound flooded his ears – he could barely hear John's frantically beating heart, but the whooshing as John inhaled and exhaled was magical. Almost forgetting his duty as nurse to John, Sherlock knew he wouldn't get the information he needed up as high as he was, but decided to give John a relatively thorough listening. He moved from right to left, gradually moving down John's chest. He got to where he wanted to – two thirds down John's back.

"Breathe in _really_ deeply." Sherlock muttered, as he concentrated on the sounds of the Inner Workings of John. John did as he was told. Being the fine doctor and marksman he is, he breathed from his diaphragm, and upon inhaling, Sherlock heard the noise just as it was described in the book. It sounded like Velcro being torn off, which is _not_ a sound you want to hear inside the lungs of the love of your life. Sherlock listened for a few more amazing breaths before he moved the head of the stethoscope to the other side of John's back.

"And again, please, John."

John, again, did as he was told. The Velcro-like sound was absent on John's right side.

"Unilateral, John. In your left lung. _Brilliant_. Awful, but _utterly brilliant._" Sherlock said, amazed at the things he heard. Sherlock got up, intending to put Lestrade's chicken soup to good use. Sherlock emptied the container into a bowl and put it in the microwave after removing various experiments' items from within.

"Well, what do you think?" John tried to raise his voice, which was a bad idea. It hurt.

"You're quite obviously fatigued, your heart is racing, your blood pressure is startlingly low, you have Crackles, and you're doing that thing you do when you have a headache, but what's worrying me is your temperature. I have theories, of course." Sherlock called.

"Tell me," John said weakly.

"Give me a minute, alright?" Sherlock called. Sherlock waited until the microwave had finished, and he pilfered around for a suitable utensil with which John could eat the soup. Sherlock came back to bed, brandishing the soup.

"Lestrade made this for you. I can't remember the last time you ate. I don't care if loss of appetite is a flu symptom, just eat." Sherlock said, expecting a protest.

"I really don't feel like eating, Sherlock." John said.

"You start eating and I'll tell you my theory." Sherlock bargained successfully.

"Fine. I'll start on it." John took half a spoonful and begrudgingly swallowed. It was delicious, actually. Of course Greg could cook.

"Well, you should be ravenously feverish and you're not. This book of yours suggests that your lack of an extreme fever could further suggest that you're malnourished. Malnourishment is a symptom, contextually speaking, of an eating disorder which would be, and _is_, a symptom of your Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, John." Sherlock deduced.

"I eat as often as you do; I'm fine." John attempted to reassure Sherlock weakly. He swallowed another spoonful of soup. Sherlock simply gazed at John until he continued. "Well, I'm not fine, but I'm getting there. You're the one with an eating disorder, look at you," John said. He coughed into his elbow, and he ran his other hand over Sherlock's smooth body. "and look at me." John poked at his muscly body, with a lean layer of fat coating him. John had the body of a war hardened soldier.

"John, your body is that of a soldier, like you are. Such eating habits suit me, it's as I have always done. You're not _starving_ yourself, but I know you don't see the point in sitting down and eating a meal. You eat enough to survive, barely. Your relationship with food is a complicated one. On the rare occasion that you do sit down to a meal, you eat as though you're famished – which you often are. You drink tea, not only because you enjoy it but because it helps you feel full, and it does give your body some of the sugar it so desperately craves. You eat when I do because you're trying to cover your tracks – if I eat, you do, and you know I remember that we almost always eat together, and you know that almost works because sometimes I don't notice that it's not Monday anymore and that it's actually Wednesday by the time I become grounded again, and that sometimes I don't notice if you've been gone for a few hours when I drift in and out of my mind palace. I mentally note almost everything we do, John, including eating. You simply cannot fool me." Sherlock ranted. John's face crumpled. He looked so vulnerable with his red eyes and nose, his sad air, his newfound meekness.

Sherlock faltered in his silence. "Not Good?" he asked timidly.

"I want to say Not Good, but you're right. Nobody likes hearing the truth about themselves like that, but you're right. You're always right. You must always be honest with me, Sherlock. Please?" John confessed docilely.

Sherlock resumed his position as sentry at John's side. He placed his hand on John's thigh, rather than his had in order to avoid obstructing John eating.

"John, I will always do to and for you what I think is best. Sometimes I don't know, but of some things I am absolutely positive. I love you." Sherlock confessed quietly.

"_I_ love _you_." John stressed. John made an effort to finish the soup. As delicious as it was, it was difficult.

"Thank you." Sherlock said as he took the empty bowl from John. He took the bowl out and left it where he thought the sink was, with it being covered in experiment remnants, it was a difficult task to find it. Sherlock walked back into the bedroom. He decided it was time John got out of bed, and onto the couch where they could watch television and receive visitors less awkwardly.

"Come here, you're getting out of bed." Sherlock said, walking over to John's side of the bed, extending a pale arm, which John took as he swivelled over the side of the bed.

"We had best put something on." John decided. He walked over to Sherlock's dresser which contained a few of John's things, and he put on some track pants and the sweater Mrs Hudson had knitted.

John felt cloudy. His head felt like it contained his entire body mass, his fingers and toes were cold, and being upright didn't feel great, either. Feeling his head spin, he gripped the dresser. Sherlock, now wearing his usual pyjamas and silk dressing gown, saw his partner struggling, and enveloped him, holding their bodies together. He didn't know what else to do, and knowing that John's head would end up over Sherlock's heart and knowing that John liked hearing it, was the only thing Sherlock could think to do. John nuzzled in deeper to Sherlock whose heart was beating a little more quickly than usual. Sherlock softly rested his cheek on John's head and inhaled the smell of his conditioner. Sherlock could feel John's heart fluttering against his chest, and in an attempt to calm himself down, Sherlock turned to rubbing John's back.

As much as John's racing heart worried Sherlock, he had been consistently observing John, John's heart rate and he'd started compiling data relating to it – time of day, what John was doing, what he'd eaten, whether he'd called his sister or not, anything relating to John's heart.


	9. Chapter 9: What John did to Himself

"Hello?" Greg called from inside the apartment.  
"Hey, Greg," John said as Sherlock led him into the living room. Sherlock sat on the couch, occupying all three seats, and pulled John into his lap, who spread across the couch. Sherlock lied to sit that way with John, as he could monitor John much more easily than from a distance.

"Thanks for getting the stuff for me, Greg. Your soup was _amazing_." John smiled.

"You're welcome. I'm glad you enjoyed it; it's a family recipe."  
"Speaking of family, being a groomsman, we have to discuss what you're going to say in your speech, by which I mean 'no embarrassing stories', Greg." Sherlock said lightly.

"Embarrassing stories? I mean, you've walked in on us a few times, _uh, sorry_, but that's not exactly wedding material." John said.

"Before you were around, Greg saw me in a few compromising situations of my own." Sherlock confessed.

"What, back when you were a fierce, young, even-more-unmanageable junkie? You were so much fun. I'm glad you're no longer high… Babysitting you isn't my division anymore." Greg said with a wicked smile.

"Yeah, I used to be a big, terrifying, sweaty, drug-addled mess. Now I'm just a big, terrifying, self-addled mess."

"You never really explained exactly why you did drugs, Sherlock, which you promised to do." Greg mused softly, his legs crossed. His gaze lifted to lovingly to Sherlock, his head cocked a little sideways.

"That I did. You know I can't handle boredom. I need _constant_ stimulating, and I must always be engaged. Stagnancy; I can't stand it, not should I have to. At least I now have John to keep me stimulated and engaged." He commented in his deep baritone voice.

"Excellent. I'm a consolation prize against _drugs_." John rolled his head back to look at Sherlock.

"No. You do things to me better than cocaine." Sherlock rephrased. He exhaled nearly completely, at the thought what John did to him. With Sherlock deflating himself like that, John was able to reach his head back and briefly kiss Sherlock along his jugular vein, causing a surge of endorphins to bloom within each man.

"Well I'm glad that I have some purpose, here." John said sarcastically.

"Bloody oath; he was an absolute _nightmare_ before, honestly. When he was coming off a long bender of coke the last time, do you think he'd go to a bloody program? What did you say? _Not my division, Lestrade_. You bastard. The few days you were going through withdrawal weren't the best. That was only a week or two before you came along, John." Greg reminisced happily.

"But you've been clean for a few years." John said, puzzled.

"Well, you'd call it a relapse, but I don't; I wasn't chemically addicted, but I was to the feeling it created, which is something I can now get elsewhere. I needed stimulating." Sherlock explained in a deadpan voice.

"Well you could have bloody well died, Sherlock." Greg said seriously, as though the words left unsaid were louder than the ones they did utter.

"Anyway, I asked Greg, and he's agreed to be your groomsman." Sherlock said, diverting the topic. John smiled, his sweat-glistened brow gleaming in the light of the fire.

"Oh, Greg, thank you," John said sincerely.

"Wouldn't have it any other way." Greg nodded.

"Jesus; we're getting married." John sighed.

"Make sure he picks a nice suit, Greg." Sherlock laughed.

"I'll coordinate with Mrs Hudson to make sure you match." Greg said.

"How did you know?" Sherlock asked.

"Deductive _reasoning_, Sherlock. Heard of it?" Greg said playfully.

"I see I _have_ taught you at least a few things." Sherlock retorted.

"Well, I'm going out for dinner with Molly, actually. I should probably head off; don't want to be late." Greg said  
"It's a bit late for dinner." John said.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Greg smiled. "If you need anything, call me, alright? Mycroft may be the British government, but I'm Scotland Yard and we're a right side quicker. Don't get up; I'll see you later, alright?" Greg said, leaving with a kiss on each man's cheek.

"Thanks, Greg." John said.  
"Bye," Sherlock called.

"Well, I do believe there's crap telly to be watched." Sherlock decided and switched the television on.

"You have to eat, Sherlock." John sighed as he stretched a little to allow Sherlock to get up.

"I know there's no point in arguing with you, and you're ill, so I'm going to be nice to you." Sherlock decided. He threw a blanket over his companion, and turned the kettle on.

"Tea isn't food, Sherlock." John called disgruntledly.

"I'm well aware, John." Sherlock called back in a monotone voice. He grabbed some drop scones and buttered them while the kettle boiled. He placed the plate of scones on the table next to the couch; there was more than enough for two.

"I'm not hungry, Sherlock."

"Neither am I, John."

Thankfully, the kettle boiled. Sherlock brought over the teapot, milk, and two cups. He poured tea just the way each man took it. He climbed back in behind John and buried his nose in John's damp, warm neck.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock." John sighed, frustrated. Sherlock recoiled a little at the usually loving comment.  
"Sherlock, I– "

"It's fine. I love you, too." Sherlock whispered into his neck.

"Hello, boys. Oh, John, you look terrible. This came for you today while you were sleeping." Mrs Hudson handed a letter to Sherlock.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock squeezed her on the hand lovingly. The intimacy that Sherlock and Mrs Hudson shared was a very important one to each person; without each other, they each had little else.

"When did it come? Who delivered it?" John rasped.

"The postie at the usual time. Why?" Mrs Hudson explained.

Sherlock opened the letter carefully. The paper matched the one from the people causing them grief. Mrs Hudson waved goodbye as she shuffled out of the apartment.

"Thanks, Mrs Hudson," John called out.

"John, it's the same… asking why we aren't playing along with their boring little games."

"Show me." John grabbed the letter from Sherlock and with fervour, he read it.

"Nothing short of infuriating." John sighed. Sherlock reclaimed the letter from him and put it aside. He reached his hands around John's middle, and pulled him in, holding him tightly.

"John,_ stop_. Don't doubt me; we're doing the right thing by not engaging in such nonsense, believe me." Sherlock kissed John's neck.

"I trust you." John asserted. John trusted no one but himself, and Sherlock, and for him to display such candour was a rare thing.

"Then stress less." Sherlock implored. "You need to concentrate on getting better, and if you're stressing out, you're not going to do that effectively and I won't allow that." Sherlock stuffed a whole scone in his mouth and devoured it.

"Told you you were hungry."

"Shh." He said eating another, mostly to appease John. "That doesn't make any sense! The culprit _cannot_ be the husband!"

"It's a television show, Sherlock."  
"_It doesn't make any sense, John._"  
"This episode has less continuity than one of the Scotland Yard Police Chief's theories, John, honestly."  
"I'm well aware, Sherlock. Well, no, actually, I'm not, but I'll believe you."  
"Can't you see? It doesn't work like that. The husband simply wouldn't leave his wife's body like that; he confessed to adultery and he simply doesn't care about her, especially post mortem. I highly doubt he cares much for her corpse anyway; he knows there's nothing there, she's gone. The culprit loved her." Sherlock ranted.

After a short silence, John spoke.  
"What do you think _is_ after death?"

"Nothing. Why?"

"You say this now, but have you ever been in love with someone and had them die on you?"  
"Well, yes. It nearly killed me via cardiomyopathy." Sherlock stated in intrigue; he wasn't sure where John was going with all of this.  
"Doesn't count."  
"Why not?"

"Well, after you jumped off Bart's, I couldn't move from that pavement. I sat there for days, clinging to my last memory of you, hoping, praying for that connection we had to stay open, if a little one sided, but in my mind it wasn't. For the first few days, all I could think about was the phone call. My last words to you, and your last words. It took me a few days for my mind to wander a little further back; the things I said to you earlier that day. I called you a _machine_ and you said that alone protected you, and I said that friends protected people, but by you making yourself alone, you were protecting me, and that was the thing which kept me warm at night. It's all I could think about. You did that for me. As he had to sedate me and drag me away from the building, Mycroft went to the top and found your phone, which he later gave back to me, and _God,_ _just to hear your voice_. I don't know if there's anything after death but after watching you die, I would really like there to be, because I don't know how to cope with the possibility of losing you if I can't ever have you again. It's why I thought about joining you, every day." John confessed. It was the first time they'd really spoken about what had happened.  
"I know what you did, I watched." Sherlock wiped a silent tear from John's face. "I'm not leaving you, ever again. You do understand _why_ I did what I did, though, don't you?"

"There were times when I considered following you off that building, Sherlock. Inconveniently enough, Mycroft would always show up when the ebb and flow of hopelessness got too much and I was going to do something."

"I know, John. He has us under surveillance, and I had him put… more _invasive_ cameras in here."

John remained silent, understanding the implications.

"I saw what you did to yourself, John, what _I_ did to you." Sherlock sighed with a heavy heart. He moved his hands to the top of John's thighs where the self-inflicted scars were still healing, and John flinched a little.

"You saw? You saw me do that to myself and you let me?" John asked darkly.

"It was either that or we'd have both been killed, John. You don't think I wanted to be with you? It hurt to see you like that. It was like watching you throw yourself off a building, but slower, incremental, a more painful death and I did that to you. We're getting married. We came back from this; we're _alive_. I can't forgive myself for what I did to you and I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I love you and I _need_ you. I'm _sorry_." Sherlock monologued into John's shoulder. He pulled John closer, still wary of the still tender ribs John suffered, as well as the sudden surge of hot anger John presented.

Sherlock felt his body start to rise into a panic. He started to breathe deeply to counteract the hyperventilation that usually ensued after he felt the panic rising. John, still wrapped up in Sherlock's body and under the blanket, seemingly programmed to notice such things, interlaced his fingers with Sherlock's, and tilted his head back, nuzzling into the taller man.

"Shh," John soothed. "I didn't know it affected you so severely."  
"John, you quite literally broke my heart when you were shot."  
"Oh, when you put it that way," John laughed; trust Sherlock to see something as that the way he did.

"Are we okay, John? We'll make it, won't we? If anyone can make it, it has to be us, doesn't it? I suppose they all say that, and really mean it as I do, too, but we can, can't we?" Sherlock fretted.

"I remember days when the only time you'd be frustrated is if I doubted you. When did you become so sentimental? Getting daft in your later years, eh?"

"Mycroft used to joke that I'd die before I became emotional and sentimental, and I suppose he was right." Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"Don't tell _him_ that." John laughed. "Can I go to bed yet?"

"You slept nearly all day. Fatigued already?" Sherlock asked in concern.

"Yes, admittedly."

"Hmm. Let me check your blood pressure first. Stay there." Sherlock instructed.

"You're compiling data, aren't you?" John stated.

"Yep, have been for quite some time, now, John. Now shush. Give me your arm." Sherlock said, and promptly decided to remove John's rather large sweater.

"I'm cold"

"It's just for a minute."

Sherlock placed the cuff and inserted the stethoscope in his ears. He held the diaphragm of the stethoscope on with one hand wrapped around the skin just below John's elbow and the bulb in the other. He inflated the cuff, slowly cutting off blood supply. He finished taking the reading (ninety-eight over sixty one, a slight improvement from the morning, but barely significant), left the cuff on, and he moved stethoscope's bell to John's chest. Heart still fluttering, almost struggling to pump effectively.

"Deep breath, please," Sherlock asked.

John's heart sped up as he inhaled, and decreased a little when he exhaled.

"Neat. Does your heart usually do that?"

"Do what?"

"Speeds up upon inspiration and Slows a little upon expiration." He said, still listening.  
"Never taken much notice myself. Last time I listened to my own heart was in med school, trying to learn."  
John coughed, his heart stumbled a little.

"Nope. No more AVCs, thank you, John."  
"What? I'm sorry, I guess?" John said, clearly exhausted. "Bed time, I say." He sighed, his eyes drifting shut.

Sherlock continued to listen to John's heart as John fell asleep, and for a while after. John's heart pumped a little slower, with more ease than in John's waking hours. Risking waking John up, Sherlock slowly reinflated the blood pressure cuff still attached to his arm, and tried to take a reading as gently as possible. His blood pressure had not dropped any further, thankfully. Knowing John's back would regret sleeping on the couch the next morning, Sherlock scooped up the still-slumbering John and delivered him to bed. John wasn't as heavy as he looked; his heavy sweaters gave him extra bulk. He looked so small and vulnerable against the large bed with the pale sheets. His eyes closed, his face barely wrinkled, and with the absence of one taken by the land of dreams, John's flu-reddened face could have been that of John, a young man, age twenty. Sherlock delicately pulled the covers up to John's chin and slid into bed beside him.

"John," He began softly to the slumbering man. "I love you. I worry about you immensely and I would cease to exist without you. I can't comprehend the pain I have caused you and my inability to empathise the way everyone else does is finally causing me stress. I want to know how you feel, all the time, I want to know how to make you feel better, or when and how to let you grieve so you can move on and get better. I wish I were ordinary, John, so those empty words weren't so empty. Crap telly taught me a few things, you know. I wish I knew how to articulate exactly how I feel, so we could connect like others do. Be well, John Hamish Watson. We can do this together." Sherlock monologued to John who remained none-the-wiser to his confession.  
Sherlock curled up next to John, not quite touching each other. Sherlock promptly fell asleep.


	10. Chapter 10: Breathe

Sherlock awoke to an alarmingly thunderous cough erupting from deep within John's chest.  
"Squeeze my hand if you're alright." Sherlock sat up, grasping John's hand. John continued to cough violently; his lips were a little blue. John continued coughing, and did not squeeze Sherlock's hands.  
"I'm taking you to the emergency room, John." Sherlock had kept his clothes on from the previous night, and he had not removed John's pants when tucking him in the night before. John stopped coughing, but was barely breathing. Sherlock grabbed a jumper off the floor for John and helped him up. John doubled over and vomited.  
"Shit," Sherlock exhaled.

Sherlock carried John down the stairs and stood him on the footpath. John continued to cough and promptly leaned over and vomited into the flowerbeds on the street. Sherlock held John up and sat him in the car before speeding off to the hospital. John barely stopped coughing all the way to the hospital. Upon arrival, Sherlock flung John's doors open and carried him to triage. Before Sherlock had a chance to say anything, the triage nurse looked up, saw the state of John and beeped them through to the bays containing beds.  
"Pneumonia. He has been hypotensive, he's been tachycardic, and feverish," Sherlock informed the doctor who had met them on the other side of the door they'd been pushed through. After strapping a mask to John's blueing face, the nurse swiftly started an IV in his hand.  
"Sir, we're going to need you to step out, please. The waiting area is just out to your left." Another staff member pushed Sherlock out and closed the curtain. Sherlock, overwhelmed by his senses being overstimulated, began stimming with his hands. He took a deep breath and went to the waiting room and went to his mind palace, seeking a way to calm himself.

'John. Pneumonia. Lung infection. Symptoms: Hypotension, cough, vomiting, tachycardia. Heart, symbolism of; Love. Love. He loves me; he'll be okay. He's an idiot...'  
Sherlock was jolted into reality after an indiscernible amount of time to Sherlock by a woman in scrubs (an ICU Nurse Sherlock deduced by the colour of her scrubs and the tools she kept with her.) with what Sherlock identified as fresh phlegm and vomit on the collar.

"Are you with Mr Watson?" She asked.  
"Doctor Watson and yes."  
"We've got him sorted. He'll stay in the ICU for two or three nights, with intravenous antibiotics to sort him out. He can then be taken home with oral antibiotics. We've got him on oxygen; he's having a hard time breathing right now."  
"Take me to him, will you?" Sherlock asked intensely.

The nurse led him through some normal looking corridors before reaching a sinister looking set of double doors. From a dispenser on the wall, the nurse acquired some antibacterial alcohol hand wash and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. He complied and the nurse walked more slowly, leading Sherlock into one of the few large bays in which the seriously ill resided, each endowed with a wealth of not-so-standard equipment. John lay motionless, not so blue any more, thankfully. He looked small amongst the myriad of monitors and machines making John's existence less strenuous on his body. Jesus Christ, how'd it all turn into this?  
Sherlock reached up to John's free hand and held it.

"We knocked him out so he'd stop coughing so much. He'll be up in a few hours, but morning visiting hours are over soon."  
Sherlock nodded to her and had started to formulate how he could manipulate the staff into letting him stay. Sherlock sent a text to Greg, who called back.  
"Sherlock, is he alright?" Greg asked, out of breath.  
"Don't know. Should be fine. I brought him in this morning, after he turned blue."  
"Jesus Christ" Greg responded.  
"I think they're going to try to kick me out soon. Come visit and help me manipulate the nurses? I sent you some files the other night about the case with which you requested assistance."  
"Sure. I'll be there in an hour, okay?"  
"Excellent."  
Sherlock remained at John's side and spent the time he was essentially alone considering the case of John's shooting and the letters.

Greg shook Sherlock awake.  
"Oh, hello," Sherlock slurred, succumbed to the inertia of waking from a deep sleep.  
"I had one of the nurses tell me where to go, and she said she tried to wake you an hour ago, but she couldn't, and that you seemed alive enough, apparently, so she just, sort of left you there." Greg said, his hand resting on Sherlock's back.  
Sherlock saw the small damp spot he'd left on the sheets from where his head had come to rest.  
"What time is it?" Sherlock asked.  
"It's about midday. I'm late, I know."  
Sherlock stood, stretching to his fullest, appearing to Greg to take up most of the room.  
"Will he be alright?" Greg inquired.  
"I'm certain of it." Sherlock assured.  
Greg took a deep breath, and on exhalation he seemed to expel all the tension in his body as he sunk into a chair.  
"How'd dinner with Molly go?"  
"Really well, actually. It was our third date and we're going to do it again. Don't underestimate her, Sherlock, she's ferocious." Greg smiled wistfully.  
"It's your fourth date and I am fully aware of her capabilities." Sherlock assured Greg. After flaunting her own perceptiveness to Sherlock, Molly had become of even higher regard for her mental capabilities in Sherlock's eyes.  
"She's bloody brilliant, she is." Greg stated, completely enamoured.  
"Yes. Now, have you sourced the place of origin for the letters?"  
"Yeah, the post office two blocks from 221B."  
"They'll confront us directly soon enough, surely. They'll run out of patience soon." Sherlock said.  
"Don't seem so sure; if they think you're on edge about it, they'll stretch it out. After all, the fear of something is generally far more crippling than the thing itself."  
"When'd you get smart, Greg? When you stopped hanging around Anderson, I suppose."  
"He's not that bad, Sherlock."  
"Wrong."

"Stop bickering." John croaked  
"John," Sherlock exhaled, as he kissed John on the forehead.  
"Hey, Greg. Come to keep him out of trouble?"  
"God knows not even he can do that."  
"Shush, you," Sherlock said to no one in particular, brushing an errant curl from John's forehead. His hair had been getting a little shaggy lately. Sherlock liked it that way.  
"Coffee, Sherlock?" Greg asked.  
"That'd be wonderful," he responded. Greg meandered out of the room.  
"Please stop nearly dying. You're not allowed to until we're at least ninety-ish, alright?" Sherlock asked, now visibly shaken.  
John smiled warmly at the love of his life.  
"I'll never leave you, Sherlock."  
"Better not; you're much more fun than drugs, I must admit."  
"Good to know, Sherly." John sighed.  
Sherlock watched the monitors showing John's vital signs, making it easy for Sherlock to make more entries to his study of John.  
"Don't look at those, look at me." John pleased. Sherlock hesitated before responding, with the constant beeping of the aforementioned monitors piercing the silence.  
"They are you. It's handy information to have."  
"Well get it your usual way." John said, giving his wrist to Sherlock, who curled his pastel fingers around John's wrist which bounced with each heartbeat.  
"Better?"  
"Definitely."

Greg returned with two fresh steaming coffees.  
"Excellent. Thanks."  
"You're welcome."

Sherlock kept one hand on John's wrist and held his coffee in the other. A nurse strode in and upon seeing a conscious John, her expression softened,  
"Good to see you awake, Doctor Watson. You've been sent a few lots of flowers, but you can't actually have them in the ICU, so we can either send them to your house, or if you'd prefer, they can be donated to the children's ward, or to those of new single mothers."  
"Donate them, do you think, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock nodded  
"Thank you." John said.  
"I'll go get the cards from them, for you." The nurse said, heading out the door. She returned merely seconds later, brandishing three little envelopes. She handed them to John, but before he had a chance to read them, the nurse took off his oxygen mask, switching it for a nasal cannula in stead.  
"Thanks." John smiled.

John opened the cards. One was from Mycroft, dearly apologising for likely being the cause of John's infection. Another was from Mrs Hudson, which was very sweet – her handwriting was beautiful. The third, however, was printed using stamps and it read 'Waiting for you; getting impatient.'. John's heart began to race even more. With Sherlock's finger on his pulse and with the monitors on, it was obvious. The monitors started making a raucous at John's dangerously high heart rate. It had been merely seconds before four staff rushed in to survey John. Sherlock jumped out of the way, grabbing the cards from John and shoving them in his pocket. One of the staff pressed a few buttons on one of the monitors which caused the machine to automatically take John's blood pressure. Another staffer checked oxygen levels going into the mask; another flashed a light into John's eyes; the last staffer was checking IV fluids.

"John, what's wrong?" Flashlight-using-doctor asked. John said nothing, the monitors still causing a ruckus; he closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried to breathe. Before Sherlock realized what he was doing, his hand drifted back into his pocket and pulled out the cards form the flowers. He read them all, and handed the causal card to Lestrade.  
"Shit." Greg said quietly.  
"John, it's okay. Truly, it's fine. Calm down." Sherlock tried to soothe his love.  
The staff stood, stumped at John. Sherlock thrust his coffee toward Greg, glided over to the bed, he held John's face in his hands and spoke in a measured and even tone.  
"John Hamish Watson, take a deep breath, from here" He moved one hand down to where John's diaphragm would be. "and listen to me. Everything will be fine. Right now, you're sick. You will get better soon and we will get these people. Alright?" he finished slowly. Sherlock moved his hands to hold one of John's. John breathed as deeply as was possible and started to calm down. His unbelievably deep blue eyes which were widened in fear began to relax. Once John had completely calmed down, the staff rechecked his pupil responses and his blood pressure. After discussing the episode, they decided that Sherlock could come and go as he pleased if he could avoid disturbing other patients in the ICU. Sherlock reclaimed his coffee from Greg, who sat down in the chair on the other side of John's bed. Greg had paled significantly; he was shaken.  
"Just breathe, Greg." Sherlock muttered.  
"Shh." He responded.  
"Make me." Sherlock replied cheekily.  
"John, between Mycroft and me, we can protect you both. You really don't need to worry." Greg comforted John, squeezing one of his hands.  
"I'm incredibly lucky to have you lot." John said calmly, with the monitors still beeping uncomfortably fast.  
"Well, we're all an unlikely family, but it works." Sherlock imparted.  
Greg's phone went off.  
"Ugh. I've gotta go." Greg sighed angrily.  
"Bloody Anderson." Sherlock spat. John laughed at Sherlock who ferociously resented the 'useless fool'. It was endearing to see Sherlock so passionate about a person, even if it was negative.  
"Thanks for coming, Greg. I'll text you later, yes?" Sherlock said.  
"I'll see you both later." Greg said, leaning down and kissing John on the cheek. He grabbed on of Sherlock's hands and squeezed it in support before leaving.  
A nurse at the desk of the ICU who was always visible (glass walls make monitoring the patients very simple) came in to John's room upon seeing Greg leave.  
"Hi, John. We're thinking that if your O2 stats climb a little higher and we can get your blood pressure and heart rate sorted a little more, we'll send you home in two days' time with some oral antibiotics. Sound good?" she said cheerily.  
"Great," John said hoarsely. The nurse nodded and skipped off to attend to things elsewhere. John took a good look at Sherlock since first waking. He was almost ethereal looking, with the coffee, likely to be the first thing Sherlock had consumed since the night before John was admitted, colouring his cheeks, and purple bags under his usually flawless eyes stained his face. Sherlock was still wearing his pyjamas from that night, and also one of John's jumpers, which was bewildering. Sherlock, noticing John sizing him up, spoke.  
"Shush. I brought it for you, I had nowhere to put it and I was cold." He said indignantly.  
"It suits you." John smiled.  
"Shush. It smells like you. You don't smell like you right now; one of us had to."  
John was taken aback by Sherlock's comment. After the fall, each man having lost one another, they realised they had lost themselves, and since rebuilding themselves together, Sherlock had become much more outwardly loving.  
"John?"  
"You're an idiot."


	11. Chapter 11: Bed

"Come on, Sherlock. Today would be nice. This hour if you can fit us in?" John antagonised.  
John was leaving the hospital, still ill, but no longer in need of a hospital bed; his and Sherlock's would be just fine. Sherlock was double checking that they had everything with them and he kept running back over to John to take his pulse.  
"Faster than last time, John." He chimed in, rechecking a bag.  
"Maybe it has something to do with frustration, Sherlock."  
"At least your blood pressure will be a little higher."  
Sherlock's comment was met with a typical John 'you-did-not-just-say-that' smirk. Sherlock bloody loved that stupid expression, and returned it with a smile.  
"Let's just get out of here, okay?" John said, suddenly dropping the façade of wellness. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, dropping the things he was looking under.  
"Alright. Mrs Hudson will be waiting with some tea, I'm sure." Sherlock said, placing the small bag of John's things on his lap in the wheelchair and he began to push John toward the exit.  
"Sounds brilliant."  
"Why isn't your sister here?" Sherlock asked. He honestly didn't know.  
"You know when had to go over there and help Clara deal with her? Well, we managed to wrangle her into a program of sorts. She's in rehab."  
"Oh. Well, we've all been there." Sherlock tried to lighten the situation.  
"No, we haven't!" John laughed, twisting himself to look up at Sherlock.

"If there's another fucking letter when we get up those stairs, I swear to God, I'm going t–" John began.  
"Cough, maybe vomit, then fall asleep on the floor?" Sherlock finished John's sentence.  
"You're an idiot."  
"I'm a correct idiot."  
Sherlock was patient and helped a still-struggling John into the apartment. Just as Sherlock had said, Mrs Hudson awaited, with a fresh pot of tea at the ready. What John didn't notice at first was the unassuming man in a cheap suit standing in the corner as Mrs Hudson sat, calm but at the ready. Sherlock gently flopped John into a chair close to the door and drew himself up to full height. His entire posture changed, his eyes narrowed and turned cold.  
"What might you be doing here? Who are you, and for whom do you work? Fail to disclose such basic information is likely to result in your untimely demise." Sherlock demanded of the man.

"I work for Irene. She thought it rude to show up unannounced, so here I am announcing. She'll be here in four hours. She told me to give you this." The man with a heavy central European accent, who was maybe, five foot, nine inches tall handed Sherlock a letter. The envelope was expensive, French paper, written by a lithe, right handed woman with a fountain pen with water based ink.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, standing his ground.  
"I'll be off, sirs and lady. Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Hudson." Said the man. He kissed Mrs Hudson on the cheek and gave Sherlock a wide berth and a nod as he exited the building.  
"Well that was interesting. I thought Irene was dead." John said.  
"Well I wasn't just going to let her be beheaded, now, was I? What kind of a friend would do that?" Sherlock commented sardonically. John simply laughed. Of course he had saved Irene. Mrs Hudson handed Sherlock and John each a cup of tea.  
"Why on earth did you make that man a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked incredulously.  
"Unlike some of the lot you two attract, he didn't put a gun to my head, and he seemed nice enough, and who doesn't like a nice cup of tea?"  
"Honestly, Mrs Hudson." John sighed.  
"Well, Irene will be here in four hours, so John, go have a nap; I'll be in soon." Sherlock decided.  
"I don't get a choice in the matter, do I?  
"You know you're tired."  
"Alright then. Don't be long. Thanks, Mrs Hudson." John said. He got up and went into the bedroom.  
"Will he be alright?" Mrs Hudson asked.  
"You saw him through worse."  
"That I did, Sherlock. Have you two talked much about it?" Mrs Hudson asked in hushed tones.  
"We had a brief discussion a few days ago. He still harbours resentment." Sherlock said quietly, taking a sip of his tea.  
"Have you and Mycroft talked about it?"  
"No." He said, lingering on the vowel. Mrs Hudson frowned at him.  
"Well, you'd better tend to John before he gets grumpy." Mrs Hudson placed her teacup on the sink, kissed Sherlock on the cheek and left Sherlock to his devices.  
John was lying flat on his back, already asleep. John's dreams had been much more vivid, and that was a catalyst for John's already troublesomely regular nightmares to worsen. John's nap was peaceful thus far, but should a nightmare occur, it was due in another half hour or so, if John was as tired as he looked. Sherlock stripped to his underwear and climbed onto the bed without waking John. Sherlock watched John's chest rise and fall; rhythmic, never catching, just perfect.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours when John began to whimper. He'd soon turn violent, and when Sherlock tried to wake him, John often ended up hurting Sherlock, so much so that Lestrade pulled Sherlock aside at a crime scene once, out of John's earshot and asked what was happening. After Sherlock explained they were PTSD related nightmares, Lestrade took even more kindly to John.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand tightly, after all no one likes being awoken abruptly.  
"John," Sherlock said firmly, now squeezing a shoulder. John's whimpering turned into yelling. Sherlock wanted to wake John before it got violent.  
"John, wake up." Sherlock yelled, grabbing John's shoulders. John gasped, his eyed wide in terror and his mouth gaping.  
"Sherlock," he panted.  
"John, it's fine now,"  
"Mm,"  
"Come here." Sherlock said softly, pulling John to sit up and curl u in his lap, with his head on Sherlock's chest. "What was it about this time?"  
"War, you, the usual." John replied after a minute of catching his breath.  
"I'm here, the war's not, okay?" Sherlock soothed. Sherlock had been getting good at placating John. His voice and heartbeat soothed John, Sherlock had observed.  
"What time is it?" John asked,  
"Irene is due in two hours, seventeen minutes, if that's what you're asking."  
"Good." John breathed into Sherlock's chest.  
Sherlock and John stayed curled up into each other for quite some time before either said anything more.  
"Don't know what I'd do without you," John said, his voice muffled in Sherlock's chest.  
"You managed somehow for a good few decades before I came around." Sherlock said, stroking John's hair. His hand came to rest upon John's left forearm where a peculiar bundle of scars resided. John jumped a little when Sherlock traced them with his delicate fingers.  
"Not like this. It's cliché, but with you, I'm grounded. I can be me. I never knew that before you. When I lost you, I lost myself. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me." John sniffled softly.  
"It's cliché because it's what people so desperately seek, which is silly because it's almost unattainable."  
"You're an idiot."  
"You're an idiot."  
"Don't you have a case to see to?"  
"I've got a few things to analyse for Greg, yes." Sherlock said, beginning to untangle himself from John.  
"I was kidding," John harrumphed.  
"I wasn't. Sleep. I'll wake you later." Sherlock said, leaning down and tucking John in. He kissed John on the forehead, lingering, inhaling John before closing the door behind him. John was getting better; his breathing was no longer too laboured. A few more days and John would be fine.  
Sherlock curled up on his favourite chair emailing Greg, barely moving for an indiscernible amount of time before crawling into bed beside John, returning to his post as sentry. John began to stir.  
"Don't want to get up yet." John mumbled, much like a recalcitrant teenager.  
"You don't have to. I came in for a snuggle." Sherlock said, ruffling John's hair.  
"Good. Bloody excellent, actually."  
"First, I need you to sit up."  
"Why?" John moaned.  
"Blood pressure check. Don't bother arguing." Sherlock said, reaching under the bed for the equipment. He wrapped the cuff around John's arm and gave him a quick and unexpected peck on the cheek. He finished measuring it and put the equipment back under the bed.  
"Well?" John asked  
"Getting better. One hundred and eight over seventy three. Good job, John."  
"Thanks." John said as he pushed Sherlock over into a suitable position for snuggling and laid his head on Sherlock's chest. The slow and steady beating of Sherlock's heart beneath his ear was intriguing. The muscles, each contracting in perfect harmony. John had listened to many a heart before, but Sherlock's was awe inspiring. Sherlock absentmindedly played with John's hair, just listening to him breathe. John learned to adapt to the way Sherlock preferred to simply enjoy each other's company in silence rather than trying to qualify it with words as John's previous partners and everyone else he'd ever encountered tried to do. Words were never enough and the silence said almost everything they could ever try and communicate otherwise.  
"Hello, boys." Said a sultry and familiar voice.  
"Irene, you're early." Sherlock smiled.  
"Couldn't wait to see you." She said, sitting on the bed as Sherlock beckoned her. John sat up, blinking a little with the dizziness which hadn't yet passed. He was still sick, but he'd gotten past the worst of it, thankfully. Irene laid her head on Sherlock's shoulder.  
"I missed you boys. What's news?" Irene said cheerfully.  
"I proposed to John," Sherlock began.  
"And he said yes." John finished with a smile.  
"It's about time. Started planning the ceremony yet?" Irene asked gleefully.  
"Not really. With all the things going on, we haven't even really thought about it." John answered.  
"Let's elope." Sherlock said plainly.  
"What? When?" John said.  
"I don't know. Let's go to Las Vegas or something. Right now. I want to get married right now." Sherlock exclaimed.  
"It's not as simple as that. All our friends will murder us if we tried that, anyway. You wouldn't be here to solve the case, however obvious, either. No." John explained. John's decision was met with a harrumph from Sherlock.  
"He's right, unfortunately." Irene chipped in.  
"We'll get married soon, I promise." John said, leaning in for a kiss. Sherlock stayed as still as a statue, not reciprocating the love John showed. Sherlock hadn't had much an episode of his particular brand of depression or angst in a few months, since John started giving Sherlock Saint John's Wort, which seemed to be alleviating some of Sherlock's tension.  
"Come on, I'll put the kettle on." John coughed.


	12. Chapter 12: Restlessness

"So what are you going to do?" Irene asked John. Irene and John sat around the fireplace while Sherlock remained in bed after a flagrant episode of obduracy.

"I don't know. Sherlock refuses to work the case, and I feel like something bigger's coming. Something we can't fix or stop or come back from. This is it." John said.

Irene waited for the penny to drop.

"You know something." John said sternly.

"Yes."  
"_Well?_"

"If you're asking if I had anything to do with this–"

"I don't really care at this point. What do you know?"

Sherlock appeared in the doorway, wearing his pyjama pants form before.

"It's Pakistan, isn't it? They _really_ want us _both_ dead, don't they?" Sherlock said nonchalantly. He picked up his violin and stared out the window. He began plucking a tune which John recognised as one he was composing the first time Irene had complicated their lives.

"Pakistan?" John asked.

"The terrorist cell that beheaded her?"

"Oh, right." John said, trying to piece together the contradicting information fed to him by Mycroft, Sherlock, and Irene.

"Anyway, the cohort controlling the terrorist cell has decided that we're a threat, I suppose."

"I'm not." John scoffed.

"Wrong. Not only are you the single most important thing to me, which they can exploit, but you are clever. You are clever in ways I am not, thus combined, we're a force with which to be reckoned. Add Ms Adler to the mix and we're seemingly unstoppable. If I weren't us, I'd be terrified, too." Sherlock quipped.

"I missed this," Irene mused, mostly to herself.

"Tell them that we shan't allow them to continue should they foolishly decide against living and letting live, as _they_ say. Should they disregard such a warning, I will destroy them." Sherlock said sternly, drawing himself up to his full height, towering over Irene, who, if she was scared, it was imperceptible to John.

"Pass it on yourself, Sherly. They're coming. Well, some of the lackeys are. Be prepared; you weren't last time. Here's your warning." Irene said insincerely.

"Well whose bloody side are you on? Ours or theirs?" John raised his voice in exasperation. He looked at Irene, his eyes wide. She smirked; she was giving him nothing. He turned to Sherlock for answers. Sherlock appeared to be analysing Irene for data, to which he would apply deductive reasoning after collation.

"Irene. Let's have dinner," Sherlock growled. "That restaurant two blocks that way, at seven-thirty." He finished, gesticulating in the general direction of the Chinese restaurant he and John frequented. Sherlock walked over to Irene and gently forced her out the door, closing the door after her.

"What are we going to do? We know how much trouble she causes; can we handle it?" John sniffled.

"Of course we can. I haven't yet decided whose side she's actually on as of yet."

"If you're not sure, I think that means she's not on _ours_. No; it's not okay."

"I think we're being under surveillance, again. How utterly _pedestrian_." Sherlock said with disdain as he began to search the apartment.

"Mycroft back yet? Has Lestrade got anything on her whereabouts?" John asked, stressed.

"I'm sure Lestrade has something to say." Sherlock said.

"Well, let's go see him." John said. "Right now, I meant." John added as Sherlock ignored him, hell-bent on finding the items used for surveillance.

"No." Sherlock said curtly. Quite frankly, John was surprised to have elicited a response at all.

"Fine. I'm going to Lestrade. I'll see you later." John said, walking out of the apartment, not waiting for a response. John, still relatively unwell managed a typical dramatic exit from the scene and hailed a cab to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock continued to pilfer around the apartment, finding all of the items used for surveillance.

Sherlock couldn't shake the stress response he still felt after John left, manifesting itself in form of the heavy feeling in his stomach and a palpitating heart.

Sherlock played violin.

Sherlock conducted experiments.

Sherlock updated his blog.

Sherlock reread John's blog.

Sherlock replied to _every single email_ in his inbox, solving many of the cases and giving all the hints he could on the rest.

Sherlock had had enough. He had read studies confirming that the antidote to stress and anxiety was often orgasm, and without John here, and him being sick anyway, Sherlock decided to take matters into his own hands.

Sherlock padded into the bedroom, gradually removing clothing as he went.

Sherlock lay on the bed, taking a deep breath in an attempt to ease the feeling in his stomach, making it difficult for Sherlock to be calm enough to become erect. Sherlock reached for John's stethoscope, excited for his second time with the stethoscope in private. For the first time, he had noticed how heavy the instrument was. As sturdy as John himself, it was like an extension of John's own person; it had a history with him, going to war, _living_ through war and now at Baker Street, the instrument was a part of John. The interconnectedness of the whole idea of John And His Stethoscope was incredibly arousing. Sherlock had relaxed, but his penis became engorged with blood. After reaching for a little lube, Sherlock put the stethoscope in his ears and the diaphragm on his chest. The quick, but comfortable beating of his heart and the little gasp he took upon the sound flooding his ears. He lay, listening to the inner workings of himself for a minute before taking himself into his own hands. Sherlock stroked his engorged member, pumping his hand with each beat of his heart, rising closer to orgasm. Sherlock began to rock on his hips, remembering the sensation of John inside him, burning with desire. His heart raced, making Sherlock's whole body vibrate with each beat. His back arched, he pressed the diaphragm into his chest deep enough for it to bruise, he panted and moaned, and threw his head back as shivers shot through his body as he came all over himself. He relaxed his entire being and exhaled forcefully, his heart pumping away rapidly in his chest as he began to recover. He lay, listening to his heart until it steadied to a comfortable 54 beats per minute. He rolled off the bed, replacing the stethoscope and showered.

Now having calmed down and feeling great for the first time since before the first incident, Sherlock checked his emails again and was surprised to see one from Lestrade. It contained only an address and 'Come immediately.' It had been sent ten minutes ago. Sherlock put on his usual pants with his purple shirt and his customary coat. He drove himself, navigating the back streets far quicker than any cabbie would have indulged him, ensuring the quickest possible route.


	13. Chapter 13: Remebrance

Sherlock pulled up at the factory to which Irene had summoned John all those years ago. Greg's personal car was haphazardly parked. The call to come must have been urgent, but then how did he have enough time to email, but not take the time to take his very well equipped patrol car? Something was up. Apart from Greg's car, the site appeared as deserted and as decrepit as it had ever been - the walls had sprouted cracks, and nature having started to take over with moss and various climbing plants colouring the building. He stepped onto the rough, stony ground, and took a deep breath, inhaling the chill of the air. Briskly, Sherlock strode up the long driveway into the building, the only movement being the occasional rustling of the trees in the wind, Sherlock's footsteps, and the anxious beating of his heart, forcefully thumping against his inside of his chest. He flung the doors open and continued through the desolate building. Sherlock found himself in the room where Irene had conversed with John – a conversation he had witnessed. Sherlock stopped, his breath came in gasps, his heart raced in his chest and he realised he had been walking very fast. Sherlock bent over, trying to catch his breath, but his knees buckled underneath him. The last time Sherlock had collapsed on a cold concrete floor was in his younger days.

_Sherlock, aged fifteen, had spent the previous six days gallivanting about the industrial region of London. If you had asked him what day it was, he wouldn't be able to tell you, but if you asked him to recite the periodic table, he'd ask why, before indulging you, where he wold launch into far too much detail. Mycroft had been keeping tabs on his younger brother, but Sherlock moved too fast for Mycroft to manage. Sherlock's addiction had only developed in the few preceding months, but it had hit hard, and was all consuming. Sherlock was tall, painfully thin and gaunt, easily appearing twice his age. This time, Sherlock's disappearance had lasted long enough for his parents to notice. 'Mycroft, where is he? Why isn't he at school? Which friend has he been staying with, again?' they had pestered Mycroft. They hadn't noticed that Sherlock had stopped going to school eighteen months before, and that Sherlock's last friend had been imaginary. Mycroft departed from his prestigious workplace early to find his troubled brother. Mycroft drove himself to the industrial district and he looked for the typical destruction which followed his younger brother, like that of a stray cat. Mycroft saw Sherlock's illegally driven motorbike parked inside the gate of an abandoned building. It was a miracle Sherlock was still alive – he often drove when he was high and his youth-like dyspraxia was in full force. Mycroft strode into the building, not knowing what he would see. There was nothing in the first section of the building, so Mycroft followed the ever growing stench emanating from within the building. Mycroft walked past what appeared to be a sort of communal sleeping quarters and discovered the drug stash. He knew he'd find his brother nearby. Mycroft surveyed the room and decided to move on. He took one last glance at the room on his way out of it, and he noticed something he hadn't – a familiar woollen coat. He went over to the corner in which it sat, crumpled, to pick it up. The jacket was not as empty as it appeared. An unconscious Sherlock was in it, curled up in the corner; the shock of the cold concrete against his cheek assisting in stemming the bleeding from the side of his face. They were beating him again._

_"Sherlock, wake up." Mycroft whispered cautiously in his little brother's ear. "_Sherlock!_" he said more tersely. Mycroft was met with no response. Mycroft picked up his younger brother, whose cold and clammy face, with red rimmed eyes lulled backwards. Mycroft charged out of the building with Sherlock and took Sherlock straight to the emergency room. He didn't bother calling their parents, and he sat, feeling useless and inadequate, awaiting news. He wiped the tears from his face with a handkerchief and sat, feeling lost in the breadth of his aloneness. For two hours, Mycroft sat alone, before news was given. Sherlock would be fine, eventually. They led Mycroft to Sherlock's room, where Sherlock had been intubated, and had an array of machines sprouting from him. It was now late into the evening, with the broad window in Sherlock's private ICU room showing London below aglow with ambient light from the city never sleeping. Sherlock remained unconscious, lying in the bed, looking so terribly small. Mycroft watched Sherlock's every heartbeat. The night grew colder, and nurses came by to check on Sherlock. They were always so sweet, offering him tea and kind smiles. Mycroft fell asleep holding Sherlock's hand. Mycroft never left Sherlock's side that time; someone had to show the poor, odd creature the love he deserved, and that Mycroft genuinely felt for his sweet young brother. Oh, how Mycroft was already wearied with age._

Sherlock stayed on the ground for a few seconds, feeling his heart slamming against the freezing cold concrete. The sound of his breath, now fogging up the air echoed around the room. Sherlock stood up, brushed himself off and stretched. He had to focus on the task at hand and so he did. He remained stationery for a moment more before continuing to stride through the cold industrial building. He came upon a dead end; the only entrance or exit besides the large, grotty windows up on the third floor was the doorway in which he stood. Sherlock turned around, only to find two men behind him.

_Store bought suits which fit well, recently dry cleaned, both five feet, ten inches tall, armed, likely belonging to some kind of crime syndicate, in which case, Lestrade might be in danger or already dead. _

The two men forced Sherlock into the room which he had just inspected. Once he was inside, they stood on either side of the door frame, waiting. John and Lestrade stumbled in, both a little beat up. John looked worse off than Greg; his ucipital mapilary was thrumming at about 120 beats per minute, his face was more bruised than Greg's and the look in his eyes was that of sheer terror.

"John," Sherlock breathed.

"Sherlock, don't-" John began before Irene was shoved through the door and pushed into him as warning, cutting him off, by a taller man, wearing suit pants and a plain white dress shirt.

"Ah, the detective, the defective, and the woman." Said the nondescript man, gesturing to Sherlock, John, and Irene in turn. "Oh, and the boy from Scot's Yard." He added, almost as a monologue.

"What is it that you want?" Sherlock asked firmly, feigning confidence as John and Irene stood up.

"It's not quite as simple as that. You think I'd go to all this trouble for something simple? You're supposed to brilliant, Mr Holmes." He said.

"Christ, not this again. Can we get this over and done with? I'm rather hungry. I'm also in need of sex, but I'll have to patch John up, and make sure Greg's alright before doing so, so if I'm going to fit _that_ in with enough time for sex before John's too tired to move, I suggest you hurry the fuck up, please." Sherlock insisted.

"You are under my control. Do you understand me?" The man articulated carefully.

"Oh yes, whatever. Now _what are your motives_?" Sherlock bellowed.

"Had you avoided meddling in our business, you wouldn't be in such a predicament, Mr Holmes." Said the man.

"As far as I am aware, I am not _in_ a predicament. You're from the terrorist cell from which I liberated Irene." Sherlock said, exasperated.

"Well _done_, Mr Holmes." The man said. "However, this time, you will not succeed in evading us. We're taking Irene's life as planned, and yours as collateral. What to do with John and Greg, we haven't decided."

"You're not having Sherlock." Irene said.

"Irene, you led them to him, this is _your_ fault." John spat angrily.

"John, I love you, but please shut up. We'll talk later." Sherlock said.

John strode over to Sherlock; he looked up at his fiancé and sternly spoke.

"Give her to them, and let's _go_."

John was afraid. His face was bloodied and swollen, his pupils dilated in fear. Sherlock opened his coat and pulled John inside, burying John into his chest. Sherlock turned them around, shielding John from the men guarding the door. John sighed and pressed himself in closer, rendering Sherlock capable of feeling John's racing heart against his solar plexus. Feeling John's stress, Sherlock held John's head which was against his significantly calmer heart, inhaling the scent of John's blood, sweat, cologne, and adrenalin, like the smell of their more adventurous bedroom escapades. The smell of violence was remarkably similar to the smell of sex.

_John bit and sucked Sherlock's neck in a primal fashion. He drew blood. A moan was forced from deep with Sherlock's body in pleasure. John moved to the front of Sherlock's neck, seeking his violently throbbing pulse, over which he stuck his tongue. Sherlock's pulse bounding into him reverberated around John's entire body; he tasted so good, so sweet. Already inside John, Sherlock thrust deeper into his mate, sending an unspeakably pleasurable, deep, almost painful shooting sensation throughout his entire body, almost causing him to come then and there. John threw his head back and let out a guttural moan. He began to gasp desperately, and hyperventilate as he did when he was about to come. Sherlock pulled John in so their chests touched. He grabbed John's dick, wet with precum and began to stimulate the tip. Their hearts beat tumultuously toward each other; Sherlock buried his ace in John's neck, and was overloaded with an array of smells, tastes, sounds and tactile sensations. With John setting his senses afire, Sherlock came. Seconds later, John came all over Sherlock._

Sherlock was brought out of his reverie by the man speaking again.

"How _sweet_." He said with disgust.

Sherlock and John paid no attention to him, and Sherlock continued to soothingly rub John's back.

"What's your _name_?" Greg asked casually.

"Oh, right. Call me Yusuf."

"You still haven't told us what's going on." Irene piped up.

"Yeah, can I go? They're showing EastEnders reruns of some episodes I missed." Greg said.

"For the love of God, I don't plan to let any of you out alive." Yusuf said, exasperated.

John pulled out of Sherlock's embrace and looked at Sherlock, Greg, and Irene and gently gestured. They all understood what he was getting at.

John ran at the security guard on the right, Irene and Greg went to the one on the left. They meant to maim and temporarily disable, not kill. Sherlock headed straight for Yusuf.

A brawl ensued. John pushed his henchman into the adjoining room and seemed to be dealing with him well. Irene and Greg followed suit; they forced their henchman into the room, but in a different direction. Sherlock ducked a right hook from Yusuf and backed away, taking a breath. Yusuf charged at Sherlock and pushed him to one of the large windows. Yusuf grabbed Sherlock by his lapels and smashed the window with Sherlock's head. Sherlock lost consciousness and collapsed as Yusuf released him.

It took only a few seconds for Sherlock to regain consciousness, but he was severely concussed and disorientated. There was blood all over the wall, floor, and glass. Sherlock struggled to stagger to his feet. He climbed up the wall, slipping on his own blood. Before he had a chance to say anything, Yusuf pulled him the rest of the way up and pushed Sherlock's top half out the window. Three storeys off the ground was a long way when you can't stand straight.

"We will _always _execute revenge, Sherlock Holmes, and from what I hear, it's about time someone put you in your place." Yusuf said, inching Sherlock closer to his death.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock flailed a little as Yusuf gently pushed Sherlock a little further. Luckily, his coat was protecting him against most of the glass fragments. John, even more bloodied and now limping jogged into the room.

"_No,_" John shouted. Typical.

"Yes." Yusuf said simply, as though he were being asked if he wanted a cup of tea. Yusuf tipped the rest of the still stunned detective out the window. John heard the sickening crunch from below and ran. He ran down all three storeys worth of stairs and outside. Like before, blood was staining the pavement. Lestrade and Irene had followed John down the stairs.


	14. Chapter 14: Impact

"Call for help," John muttered hopelessly.

John felt for a pulse on Sherlock's left wrist.

Nothing.

Not trusting it since Sherlock's reappearance after having committed suicide, John ripped Sherlock's shirt open, careful to not jostle Sherlock's body in case of spinal injury, and put his ear to Sherlock's chest.

The faint and dysrhythmic thrumming of Sherlock's heart was barely audible. Sherlock, barely breathing, would need immediate intervention if he were to survive. There was little John could do. Sherlock was likely exsanguinating from inside out, which would require litres of blood and surgery, he may have ruptured various internal organs, his heart may fibrillate and stop, and with his already present and very recent head trauma, John was terrified. He'd learned from Sherlock that at five storeys, a child had a survival rate of approximately fifty percent of a fall, so Sherlock at three storeys must be fine. John then considered that that figure was likely to be for residential buildings, which had shorter storeys than industrial buildings, but then again, it was an older building, but Sherlock had landed on concrete. Sherlock would have been proud.

John continued to kneel beside Sherlock with his head on his companion's chest, awaiting the inevitable asystole. John's own heart was beating dangerously fast in his chest, making up for that which Sherlock had lost. Unexpectedly, John was pulled backward from the waist in a rather violent fashion. He stumbled and fell over trying to escape whomever it was that tried to take him away.

"John, calm down; it's me." Greg soothed.

John allowed himself to further collapse onto the cold concrete.

"_Help us here, please."_ Greg shouted. Two paramedics ran over. One grabbed at John's wrist while the other checked his pupillary response with a shockingly bright light.

"I'm fine; Sherlock," John began, trying to get up off the ground.

"He's being sorted, John. We're doing the best we can." The female paramedic said.

The pain from his cuts and bruises hit John like a wave. He let his whole body relax, as he no longer had the super-human strength giving adrenaline helping him, now all it did was make him stress more about Sherlock.

"We need to take you to hospital, John." The male paramedic said.

Another paramedic brought over a hideous yellow board, onto which they planned to strap John.

"I'm fine; I can get on a gurney myself." John said belligerently, escaping the grasp of Greg and the paramedics. He tried to stand but his legs collapsed under his weight.

"_Fuck,_" John winced.

"John, stop. Let's get him some Oxycodone." The female paramedic said. "John, are you allergic to anything? Any medications?"

"No, nothing." John said, accepting the pills he was given. John was loaded up and taken to hospital. Greg rode with Sherlock, which John didn't even have to ask him to do.

John soon lost consciousness.

John awoke with an incredibly dry throat. He was in a hospital bed, again.

"John. How are you feeling?" Greg asked.

"I'm fine. Why am I here? How's Sherlock? Where is he? Is he alright?" John rasped, becoming manic. His heart raced as he tried to sit up. He was clearly in pain, and he was still groggy on pain medication. Greg reached over and took John's hand in his.

"You have some fractures and cuts, which required IV antibiotics. They were also worried about a haemorrhage, but you should be fine." Greg said softly.

"How is he?" John asked. The beeping from his heart monitor sped up even more in anticipation.

"It's too early to tell, John; it's only been a few hours. He's in the ICU after he had surgery. You know, the first twenty-four hours are the crucial ones, they say." Greg said, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

"How bad does he look, honestly, Greg?" John pressed on.

"I don't know, John."  
"_Greg." _John bellowed.

His heart monitor started making the familiar alarm. A nurse rushed in. John continued to yell, and was inconsolable, just riling himself up more and more. Two more nurses came in, and after ten minutes, John still wouldn't stop flailing and yelling. The nurses decided that a one-off dose of medication to knock him out for a few hours would help. He needed rest, and he wasn't going to get it if he continued in such a fashion. The nurses stayed until he fell into a deep slumber. Greg thanked the nurses as they departed. Greg called Molly on his way up to see Sherlock.

There lay the man, the incredible intellect, reduced to the shell of his body. Greg longed to talk to him, just to be around him. They'd grown closer as Sherlock got clean, and then met John and seemed to have found himself and some kind of peace with himself. No longer the recalcitrant child (which still showed when in the company of people he didn't like or didn't know) but a man who almost enjoyed the company of his very few friends. Greg, like the everyman he was, was generally known as 'emotionally stunted' by his girlfriends and ex-wife, (and simply 'blokey' to his workmates) but he became overwhelmed; Sherlock's state may not be temporary. He may not wake up; he may not grow old with the man he loves.

"Sherlock, I, uh… Well, they say in films that they can her you, but I don't know. You're not, you, when you're like this. I don't know how John's going to react. Sherlock, you can't stay like this; we need you. John needs you more than anything. It'd be a criminal waste for you to not get to grow old and domestic and sentimental with us. You deserve to get through this and live the rest of your life and be happy. If you were to die, Sherlock… Just when things were starting to get _really_ good for you… And John. You have to live to see your wedding day, Sherlock. I want to take Molly to your wedding, and I want to dance with her, and I want to see you _smile._ I want to see you _genuinely smile_. Is that too much of us to ask? To have you stay with us, just a little while longer? They've been saying that there's been no news, but we saw the look on the neurosurgeon's face when they brought you in… I don't know. I don't _do _change and if we lost you, I don't know if I'll ever be whole again. None of would be. I don't know. Just, please… Don't die, you little shit. We need you. You deserve happiness." Greg whispered, almost in prayer to the detective. A single tear dropped from his face, into the valley where their hands met. Greg let it sit, the meniscus around the little drop of liquid stopping it from falling further and simply watched it. He sat for a few breaths, letting it sit there, before divorcing his hand from Sherlock's and he slowly trudged over to John's room again, feeling the weight of the possibilities that lay ahead.

John was still asleep, and Greg quickly fell into a light and dreamless slumber.

"Greg," John exhaled, awakening the Detective Inspector.

"John, are you okay?" Greg asked cautiously, hoping that John would remain calm this time.

"Yeah. Sorry about before. How is he?"

"Still no news, John."

"Well, how did he look? What did his chart say?"

"Not my division. You're the one with a doctorate." Greg said, avoiding John's gaze.

"You did not just – Shit, Greg; that bad?" John asked, exhaling heavily.

"John, just sleep." Greg said, holding John's hand.

"I feel fine, Greg."  
"You won't once the drugs wear off. I'll try to make sure they top you up with something before you wake again. I'll be right here, John. If there's any news, I'll wake you. I'm not going to leave, okay?" Greg said reassuringly.

"Thanks, Greg. " John said. Greg squeezed his hand gently. John fell asleep within minutes.

Twenty minutes after John's last utterances, Molly came by, visibly distraught.

"Hey, Mol. Come here," Greg said, gently prying himself from John.

Molly stumbled into Greg's embrace and let a harsh sob break free from her. Greg held her until her breathing slowed and her heart no longer felt like a hummingbird trying to liberate itself from the confines of her chest.

"That's better. Thanks," Molly said awkwardly. She wasn't really one for crying, but the increasingly late and stressful nights at the morgue had left her a little frazzled.

"Everything will be fine, Mol." Greg said, taking his place on the same chair, and pulling Molly onto his lap.

"I know. Well, I hope so. He looks peaceful when he's asleep. So much younger than he usually looks." Molly mused, looking over John.

"What'll we do without them?" Greg asked.

"We managed before, Greg."  
"Hardly. Barely solved any cases in, how long?"

"Three years. I don't know if John can take it this time."  
"We'll know what to look for this time. It'll be fine."  
"What if we don't get there in time? He nearly succeeded last time, Greg."

"Molly, we can do this. Sherlock will be fine, John will be fine, and things can go back to normal." Greg said, brushing an errant lock of hair from Molly's eyes.

"When did you last sleep, love?" Greg asked.

"Doesn't matter; I'm fine." She said. She was always so strong. It was one of the things Greg loved about her; she always put others and their priorities first, but not in a subservient way, it was always out of kindness.

Greg gently forced Molly off his lap and pulled up the big reclining chair. He grabbed a spare blanket and gestured for Molly to settle in.

"Please?" Greg asked. The pleading tone in his voice softened her; she was one less thing he needed to worry about if she was safe and sound, slumbering next to him. Molly curled up in the chair, and Greg fluffed a pillow for her and wrapped the blanket around her.

"Sleep well, Mol." Greg said, kissing her on the forehead. Before she had the chance to respond, she had already drifted off to sleep.

Over the next hour or so, a nurse came in to check on John, and Greg ensured his pain would be managed. He inquired about Sherlock, but still no news had come.


	15. Chapter 15: Is no news good news?

John awoke with Greg's hand holding his, as planned.

"Any news?"

"Nope. I did ask. How's your pain?"

"Fine. How's Molly?"

"Wrecked. Busy week."

"They work her hard down there. Take care of her, Greg."

"I will. I do. Well, I try. She doesn't exactly need me."

"She loves you."

"We haven't said those words yet. I do love her. We spend a lot of time at her place, and it's good. Things are good."

A nurse walked in, interrupting the conversation. It was Harry.

"Hey, Harry, how are you?" John asked sincerely. "Hav–" John began, but Harry cut him off. His heart started thumping nervously in irresolute anticipation of news. Clara's eyes flicked up to the monitor at the speed of the beeping and she pursed her lips.

"I'm fine; worried about you. Before you ask, we won't have news for a few more hours, okay?" She said like the caring sister she had become in recent times. "Hey, Greg; good to see you!" She added sincerely.

"Good to see you, too, Harry." Greg smiled.

"No need to worry, Harry. How are things with Clara?"

"Good, for the moment. Yes, I'm going to meetings, yes, I know you're sceptical of my sobriety, but I'm _okay_, John. I'm even pushing _good_. It's you and Sherlock we're worrying about, okay?" Harry said.

The circles under her eyes were dark and deep, but her usually light pallor appeared bright. She looked a right side healthier than the last time Greg saw her, which was when John had called him to help out with a particularly nasty, alcohol-fuelled domestic between Harry and Clara.

"Can I get up and see him?"  
"John,"

"No one is telling me anything, so I need to go see for myself. I can handle it; he's the sick one, not me."

"John, you're still not well. He beat the shit out of you." Greg said.

"He's right, you know. Give me some more time and _maybe_. Look, I've gotta go. Take care of yourself, John." Harry said in warning. She flew out the door and waved goodbye.

"Go get me his chart, Greg." John said. He'd dropped the pretence; the light was gone from his eyes and he wasn't asking.

"John, how exactly do I do that?"

"You walk into his room, and you pick up the binder which will be at the end of his bed or at the in-room mini-station thing, and you walk out of the room and continue walking until you get back in here, with the binder still in your hands. The less inconspicuous you try to look, the more inconspicuous you'll be. Godspeed." John said.

Greg begrudgingly trudged over to Sherlock's room, which was as still as night. He grabbed the binder and returned to John. He sat down in the chair in which he had been residing since they were at the hospital and held onto the binder. John held out his hands expectantly.

"John, really, do you want this?"

"As you said, I'm the one with the doctorate."

Greg handed John the binder. No point upsetting him further when he was going to get his hands on the binder somehow. John read through parts of the document, his face crumpling.

"John,"

"After my follow up MRI comes back clean, which it will, I'm being discharged. I'm going to be with him. You should probably take this back. Thanks, Greg."

"Alright. Can you hold fort for a bit? I got some things to do. I'll be back soon. Need anything?"

"Nah. Thanks."

Greg returned the folder. He went back to John's room; he carried a still slumbering Molly out and left the hospital.

John lay down, listening to the steady beeping of the somewhat unnecessary heart monitor next to him. It had become a sort of meditation, so much so that a few hours could pass and he wouldn't even notice. John's mind lay somewhere between racing and as empty as dead as the incessant thoughts in his mind were forced into the background like noise on a full subway being drowned out by headphones. John learned to quiet his mind; he had to if he wanted to survive in the real world. After Afghanistan, John couldn't just turn it off, being a soldier. He'd been there at the peak of the violence, and had had to use his immense sharpshooting skills in an ambush against his unit which took out half of his men. It haunted him. As much as Mycroft had been right, he _missed_ the warzone, John was glad to not have to worry about his men, but then it hit him – he still had to deal with the same bureaucratic crap, he still had to deal with his company, and there will always be bloodshed. Nothing had changed except the climate. It didn't make any sense.

"John, we're taking you up for your MRI now." Harry said, wielding a wheelchair for her brother.

"Please tell me you're not pushing me around." John sighed. "Am I qualified to disentangle myself from all of this?"

"We're taking these with us. Sit." Harry gestured to the chair. She turned the heart monitor off and brought John's IV with them. They headed off to the floor above them for the scanner.

"Take me to see him, Harry." John said, after being loaded back in the wheelchair.

"John, I'm not going to do that." Harry said.

"Harry, please."  
"No, John. You're not well. You can see him after you're discharged, which may even be today, alright?"

John didn't respond. He hopped back in bed and after Harry reengaged the monitoring equipment, which belligerently reminded him that he was alive, and he was left alone again. It wouldn't be long before they came to talk about his results and ultimately discharge him. They needed the bed.

Almost on cue, Harry and a doctor came in.

"Hi, John, I'm Doctor Wilson. Your scans are clean, but your sister has expressed concerns over your wellbeing."  
"Harry, really? _Why?_" John exhaled, trying to remain calm.

"You don't eat; you tried to kill yourself last time Sherlock went away; you are so reckless. If I let you out of here, where you should be, where I know you will sleep, where I know I can make you eat, I don't know if I will see you again. If he gets worse, John, I won't think twice about sanctioning you and I _know_ Mycroft and Greg will help me. That's why."

"I hear that you won't be leaving Sherlock's side, but as a condition of your discharge, you're going to be seeing a psychiatrist from within the hospital, John. We're going to make sure you're okay." Doctor Wilson said.

John became overwhelmed with rage; he was an adult, a soldier, and he could take care of himself. John smiled and agreed. He signed the release papers and went to the cafeteria to eat. After deciding on a bland sandwich from a vending machine and some equally appetising coffee, John slowly headed to Sherlock's room.


	16. Chapter 16: Light Which Never Went Out

He dragged his feet. His heart started palpitating, making him breathless. He came upon Sherlock's ICU room. The curtains were drawn closed; the lights were off, except the light above Sherlock's bed, emitting a glow upon Sherlock that made him look dead.

Sherlock was intubated.

Sherlock's elbow had a large bore IV protruding from hi thin arms.

Sherlock's chest was littered with electrodes and bandages.

His eyes were closed, and sunken. He was skinnier than ever.

John dropped to the floor and let a sob tear through him. On his hands and knees, he crawled up on the chair/bed hybrid and held Sherlock's hand. He felt for Sherlock's pulse. Fast. Weak. From what Sherlock's chart had said (which wasn't a lot), they weren't sure if Sherlock would awaken.

Mycroft.  
No one had told Mycroft.

John called him immediately. Mycroft was on his way back home from his overseas trip when John called. Luckily, he was in a private car in London and was now on his way.

"John. _John_." Mycroft said, gently shaking John's shoulders. "John, please"

John was falling into catatonia. Things were bleak. He looked up to see Mycroft.  
"This is Doctor Stiles. She's one of us and will be reviewing and overseeing Sherlock's case. She is the best in the commonwealth and what she says goes." Mycroft warned the staff in Sherlock's room.

There were quite a few in there now. John wondered how long they'd been there.

"Thank you." Dr Stiles said.

"Dr Stiles, this is Captain Dr John Watson, previously of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers; Sherlock's fiancé." Mycroft said as the hospital staff exited the room.

"Nice to meet you, Captain," Dr Stiles said, extending a hand which John Shook.

"Nice to meet you, too, Doctor."

"What's the plan?" John asked.

"At this point, I'm not sure. I need to run a few more tests and then I'll have answers. Are you feeling alright, John?" Dr Stiles asked.

"Yes, I'm fine, thank you."  
"John, don't." Mycroft said. John was still battered and bruised and feeling drained after what had happened.

"Wrist, please." Dr Stiles said. John reluctantly held out his wrist. She leaned into the light to see her watch more clearly.  
"You are aware that your pulse rate is about one hundred and thirty, John?" She asked.

"It's hard to ignore when it's thundering away in your own chest, Dr Stiles." John stated wearily.

"Go to sleep, John. We'll wake you when we have news." Mycroft said.

Sleep. Sleep is all John had been doing. Despite resenting the patronising nature of everyone around him, John flipped the chair/bed hybrid into the bed setting and he lay down. In the dark, he soon drifted off to sleep.

He awoke to Dr Stiles and Mycroft conversing quietly in the corner of the room.

"Any News?" John asked, interrupting them.

"Yes." Dr Stiles said.

"Why didn't you wake me?" John asked, standing up.

"John, sit down." Mycroft came over and pushed John back down into the chair.

"John, Sherlock has no higher brain function."

John's only response came in the form of John exhaling, deflating.

"John," Mycroft whispered. A tear dropped from his face onto John's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Here's the data from the EEG, John. See for yourself." Dr Stiles said, placing a folder on top of Sherlock's legs. She left the room.

"John, he would want us to stop all this. We have to let him go." Mycroft said solemnly.

"That's easy for you to say," John spat.

"John,"  
"_Mycroft._"

"I'll leave you alone with him."

Mycroft left.

John, feeling as though his entire body were made of lead, wasn't sure what to do.  
There wasn't anything he _could _do. There wasn't anything _anyone_ could do. Sherlock was brain dead, which was quite possibly the most painful part of it all.

John toed his shoes off, removed his sweater and shirt, and climbed onto the bed. It was an awkward manoeuvre with all the machines, but John managed. John sat behind the detective, with his legs on either side of Sherlock's and he carefully pulled Sherlock into the position they usually assumed on the couch together. John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck. It wasn't the same. He didn't smell the same, or taste the same, or feel the same. The machine that was breathing for him was doing it _wrong_. Sherlock didn't breathe like that at all. Every detail about Sherlock was slipping away, being broken and setting wrong in the plaster of his memory; it was all being taken from him and Sherlock wasn't even gone yet.

John rocked himself and Sherlock back and forth gently. Keeping his face buried in Sherlock's untamed curls, John began to sing quietly.

Nurses came in and out, and the psychiatrist he was forced to see visited. Harry came by and mentioned sanctioning John, but he barely heard a word anyone said. John kept the company of his and Sherlock's breathing, and his and Sherlock's heartbeat, and the dull glow of the light which never went out.

Two days of sitting with Sherlock, and Mycroft came in. He turned all the lights on in the hospital room, blinding John.

"John, it's time." Mycroft announced.


	17. Chapter 17: It's TimeYou MeEpilogue

"John, it's time." Mycroft announced.

"For what?" John feigned ignorance.

"We're going to switch the machines off and we'll extubate him. After we take the tube out, he may continue to breathe on his own, he may not. We'll give him more morphine, to make him comfortable. It could take minutes, or it could take the rest of the day, but it's time, John." Dr Stiles said.

"John, I'm sorry." Mycroft switched the machines off.

Dr Stiles tilted Sherlock's head back, and John held it as she removed the tube from Sherlock.

Sherlock gasped, barely taking in any air. He continued to breathe, but laboriously.

"Sherly, please, you came back from the dead once, you can do it again. Breathe, Sherlock. I need you. Come on, I love you, don't, don't leave me here alone, Sherlock…" John whispered tearfully into Sherlock's neck. Mycroft sat on the end of the bed and held Sherlock's hand. Sherlock would be disgusted with all the flagrant displays of sentimental outpour. He would understand that that's what John needed to do, however silly he found it, but Sherlock was already gone, his transport had yet to follow suit. John continued to pray into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stopped breathing, he just _stopped_.  
"Sherlock, don't you _dare_. You are not allowed to do this to me. Sherlock, you _have to _live. Please," John said. His heart was beating quickly enough for the both of them, and it was starting to hurt.

Sherlock died in John's embrace. As per custom, the consulting physician on the case would auscultate the patient to confirm cardiac death, but when Dr Stiles tried, John, completely overcome with emotions, swatted her hand away.  
"_You do not touch him_." John warned.

"Come on, John. He's gone. Let him go." Mycroft begged.

John laughed at the double entendre of the last phrase – _let him go_.

Heaven was not ready for Sherlock and Sherlock was not ready for the post-death nothingness he expected. John clung more desperately onto Sherlock's frail and empty body. This was the body that contained the love of his life; this was the transport that gave Sherlock mobility and a heartbeat and the smell of his hair in the winter and the soft buttery skin which felt like fire and sometimes ice. None of these things were there.

There, in his arms lay the empty shell which once externally represented Sherlock.

Sherlock was already gone.

"We'll leave you to grieve, John." Mycroft said, turning the lights off as he left. The soft glow from the light behind him showed how deep the hollows of his greying cheeks were. This sack of skin and bones no longer held anything for John. John began to feel suffocated by the cold, dead flesh resting upon his lap. He dyspraxically relieved himself of the cold corpse and fled the room and he ran. He ran out of the hospital and he ran to baker street and he ran up the stairs, and oh god, he hadn't said a single thing to Mrs Hudson, but later, later, and he threw himself onto the bed, still with the sheets that smelled like him and were white and thin like him, and the paintings on the wall hadn't changed, thank god, and his chair, Sherlock's chair, it still had the little imprint from his perfect, bony arse almost fossilised into the old fabric, and the skull and the teacups and the books lying open and the experiments; surely Sherlock would waltz right back into 221B and swoop John up into his arms and fuck him silly like he did after he came back from a solo expedition. It would all be _fine_.

"John, I need you to _breathe_, please." Molly said meekly. She stood in the kitchen with the kettle just about to boil. Her eyes were red with tears, and her hair was in a messy bun, and she was wearing a pair of John's pyjamas.

"Greg set me up in your bedroom and said that the next time I'd see you would be after the fact. I woke up in these." She said, gesturing to the pyjamas. "It'll be fine, John. Sit. Time for a cup of tea."

John obeyed. Molly padded over in John's pyjamas, which clung to Molly' slight frame in odd places and hung in others.

"John, Greg and I are going to stay with you for a while."

"No need."  
"John, don't,"  
"I don't need babysitting, Molly."  
"Yes you do."

"I'm going to bed, okay."

"No, you need to eat." Molly presented John with a full plate.

John sat and ate in silence.

"Now I'm going to bed."

"Sleep well."

John trudged into bed. Nothing felt real. With the aid of one or two too many sleeping pills, John slept.

John awoke to find Molly and Greg curled up on the couch, reading together.

"That's not how you pronounce 'centrifugal'," Molly laughed.

"I didn't know that, I've read a fair bit on it, but I've never talked with anyone about it before." Greg laughed, leaning in for a kiss.

"So no one knows you're a reader." Molly said. "What a silly thing to keep secret."

John padded into the kitchen for a glass of water as a way of making his consciousness known.

"Hey, John. Sleep okay?" Molly asked softly.

"Yes, thanks." John responded.

The next four weeks when by. All John did was sleep, thanks to the sleeping pills, and literally nothing happened. John felt as though his entire being were made of razorblades which shook when he moved. When he thought he'd simply stop functioning out of sheer boredom, he caught a break.

"Stamford just called; he needs the both of us right now, Molly." Greg said.

"John, will you be okay here?" Molly asked, packing up her things.

"I don't know how long we'll be." Greg said.

"I'll be fine." John said, forcing a smile.

Molly and Greg rushed out of 221B, closing the door behind them. John went into the bedroom, and hanging on the back of the door was Sherlock's signature coat. John pulled it on and flipped the collar up. It smelt like him. The familiar material against his skin made John flush with excitement. Today was the day, and Sherlock would be with him.

John took a cab to Saint Bartholemew's hospital, where he had trained, where Molly worked and where Sherlock and Moriarty had had their final stand-off. John went in and found himself in the stairwell. He climbed the stairs all the way to the rooftop.

John pulled out his phone, looking at his sent messages. He'd sent too many to Sherlock, but he'd received no replies.

_Sherlock, come home – JW_

_Sherlock, get some milk will you please? – JW_

_Sherlock, the bed still smells like you – JW_

_Sherlock, I have kept the places in your books, and they're on the shelf now, okay? – JW_

_Sherlock, I can't remember the way you used to look at me. – JW _

_Sherlock, I can't remember the way you smell. – JW_

_Sherlock, they think I've gone mad. Come back and tell them they're wrong, will you? – JW_

_Mycroft isn't the same. Mrs Hudson still brings me supper. – JW_

John put the phone down. Over the four months, John had texted Sherlock four hundred and seventy six times.

John called Sherlock's phone and climbed to the edge of the railing, impervious to the audience he had attracted below.

_'You know who you have reached. Leave a message and John _might_ get back to you. There. Happy, John? Why must I leave a voicemail mess-'_ Followed by a small beep, the message ended.

"Sherlock, it's so good to hear your voice," John began; his heart aflutter, the heavy weight following him around the last four months had dissipated. "I'm coming, Sherlock. If this is the start of an empty eternity of black and nothing, that's okay; it's better than living the rest of my life as half a person. If I'm lucky enough to spend some kind of afterlife with you than I am blessed. I will be truly _blessed_." John choked out a sob of relief. "I'll be there in a few minutes, with you. I've been waiting for this my whole life, Sherlock, to be with you forever. Oh _god_, I'm so, _happy_, Sherlock. Being an old man wouldn't have suited me, you know, not unless you were there, growing old with me. We would have been wonderful together, once we bridged that last bit of separation we had. We would have died together, we _should_ have. I suppose in a way we did. I can't wait to be _whole_ again." He could hardly contain the delirious joy he felt blooming within his chest. His eyes blinded by the tears, he couldn't see the police below, running into the hospital and up the stairs.

It didn't matter anyway, they were too late.

"I love you, Sherlock." John finished, He ended the phone call and threw his phone on the ground, like Sherlock had done. He spread his arms wide and leaned forward. The endorphins flooded his body. The falling sensation made him feel as light as a feather.

By the time the blood spread across the pavement, he was gone. He had taken his last breath with Sherlock's name on his lips.

**_Epilogue_**

"You weren't meant to join me so soon, John."

"You're an idiot,"


End file.
